the pursuing car came up the road at thirty miles an hour. He heard the
driver loosen up to a greater speed. Then he heard the shock.
It was like the explosion of a bomb. What damage was done Conn could
not guess. He did not care. He heard the crash, listened to the
splintering of glass and wood, the sudden scream of bursting metal,
heard the report of the engine, and saw a tongue of flame shoot up into
the air. Simultaneously with the explosion, flames burst out around the
doomed vehicle.
Tommy Conn was in the seat of his own car by this time. He was gone by
the time the tumult died down. Looking back, he saw a figure outlined
against the furnace; then he turned his head, grinning to himself. He
had checked his pursuers decisively. He did not look back any more.
Less than an hour later he drove steadily, and well within the
speed limit, into Southampton. Dawn was coming. He had changed the
number-plate of his car again, and now it bore the proper registration.
He garaged the car in town, giving the name of Eckhardt for the
receipt, took his sack of loot from its hiding-place, and walked
towards the docks.
Had the car belonged to him, Tommy Conn would have plunged it into
the sea, or sunk it in a river, so that all traces of it would have
been lost. In garaging it he was not risking himself. His brain was
one divided into two compartments. In one he thought of what he was
receiving; in the other of what he was giving. He had agreed to accept
his fee for the burglary. The risk of the chase was not included in the
bargain, therefore the risk lay with Eckhardt. It was up to Eckhardt to
instruct the man he had engaged for the return journey how to get the
car back to London. Since Conn was delivering the goods as promised, he
had carried out his part of the agreement. Eckhardt never gave anything
for nothing. Why should he?
He found the boat lying near the steps of one of the docks, as he had
expected, and he went on board. A seaman was swabbing the deck. He
saluted Conn.
"You're the gentleman from London we're waiting for, I suppose," he
said. "I'm ready to move as soon as Mr. Eckhardt gets the clearance
papers."
"He can get them as quick as he likes for me," replied Conn with a
smile. "I'm dog-tired. Show me where I can sleep."
He was given a small, poky cabin, along one side of which was a berth.
He shut the door, put his sack on a table, and turned in at once.
He woke with the sunlight streaming through the porthole. He was
conscious that he was not alone. A man was standing by his bunk.
"Sorry to wake you, but I came to inquire about the garaging of Mr.
Eckhardt's car."
"All right, I know. What time is it? Nearly midday. I'll give you the
receipt for the car. You're the one to take it back to London for
Eckhardt, aren't you?"
The man took the receipt, and was looking at it as Conn climbed to the
floor, stifling a yawn.
"I'll give you a tip, mate," Conn said suddenly. "Be careful on the
return. I had a rough trip down, but I beat 'em."
"Beat who?"
"The cops. Oh, I'm not going back to London for a bit, I tell you.
They laid broken beer-bottles on the road to stop me. One tyre was
punctured, but I put on the spare wheel and got away. Then they chased
me, so I built a pile of rock in the middle of the road, and their car
charged it and blew up. We'd better get away. Isn't this boat moving
yet?"
"What's all the stuff in the sack?" asked the other.
"That's the loot for Eckhardt----"
Tommy Conn stopped and peered into the face of the stranger. Something
in the man's eyes glimmered.
"What's it got to do with you?" he challenged.
"A lot. I am a police officer."
Conn gasped, and fell back a pace.
"Where's Eckhardt?" he cried. "Has he squealed?"
"No, Eckhardt didn't squeal. But what you've just told me links things
up."
"Links what up?"
"A few things that puzzled me. Last night I called here to request
Eckhardt to come to the police station. We knew he had hired this boat.
Instead of calling, he went ashore and hired a car to go inland. And
then, when we found his own car garaged this morning----"
"He's bolted! Saved his own skin!"
"Well, he tried to save yours, evidently. The driver of the car
Eckhardt hired tells me it was Eckhardt who strewed the broken bottles
on the road."
"What's this?" demanded Conn hoarsely.
"The driver of the car has made a statement. He says Eckhardt was
chasing his own car, trying to stop it from coming down. He must have
been frightened by the request to call at the police station. He kept
following his own car until they ran into the obstruction. Luckily the
driver wasn't hurt, but Eckhardt was inside the vehicle and hadn't a
chance. He was killed. As you've stated that you drove that car, you'll
be charged with the affair. Your name is Cohen, isn't it?"
"My name is Conn," gasped that individual. "I didn't guess--tell me,
what were you charging Eckhardt with?"
"We weren't charging him with anything," replied the officer. "We
merely wanted him to sign the clearance papers to let this boat sail.
Hold out your wrists. I advise you not to say anything until I have
gone through this sack and examined the contents."
* * * * *
"And that," said the Governor, "was the reason Tommy Conn and Eckhardt
were unable to help in the defence of Bill Hemsey, as it was also the
reason for the sudden and desirable termination of the rivalry between
Conn and his friend Billiter, the clever criminal who boasted that he
always erected a perfect defence. Each, as I have said, was of the
opinion that his own particular method was the best. Alas, is there
ever a best in crime?"
"Billiter seems to have proved it," said the visitor with a smile.
"And yet," replied the Governor, "there is an answer to your theory
even there. The answer will be found in the twelfth cell in the row.
I have Joseph Billiter under lock and key at this moment, and I shall
tell you at once how he arrived at that position."
THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE TWELFTH CELL
I have already decided (continued the Governor), and I think you will
agree with me, that Conn's place is among the Intelligents. But I am
going to put Joseph Billiter into the class above that. He is certainly
one of the Intellectuals. I have more than one reason for coming to
this decision.
Joseph Billiter was a student at one time at a public school. He was
intended by his parents for one of the professions, but his whole
inclinations were in the direction of engineering and mechanics. He
went to one of the big universities, took honours in his examinations,
and then came to London to seek a career. He became a teacher in a
school demonstrating the sciences. At one of his lectures he stated
that it was possible to defy any apparatus that civilisation had ever
erected, or could erect, to protect itself against criminals.
That lecture was widely quoted and commented upon. The result was that
one of the biggest firms of safe-makers in the country offered to stake
a certain sum of money that it was impossible to enter one of their
safes within a given space of time. Frankly, I believe the offer was
made in order to calm the unrest that had been caused in financial
circles by Billiter's declaration. It was felt that his remarks might
tempt the criminal fraternity to increase their activities, and,
in any case, it was stated over more than one conference-table that
Billiter had been most indiscreet in telling openly what had been
feared privately. Really the blame, perhaps, ought to have been put on
the newspapers who gave prominence to his challenge; but these things
are so complicated, and their threads run under and about so many
interests, that it is difficult to trace blame, or to define what a man
may or may not declare.
Briefly, then, it was admitted in inner circles that if what Joseph
Billiter had said was true, it would be a bad thing for the safe-making
industry; and, on the other hand, the safe-makers would not sit down
to such a challenge, which meant loss of business and lack of faith
in their wares. You observe how commerce is delicately balanced, and
how even a lecture may cause a flutter in finance! At this stage the
newspaper which had given most prominence to the lecture conceived
the idea of staging a test. It was a great idea that came to the news
editor of the journal in question. He was not a rich man.
The safe-makers were approached. Joseph Billiter was approached. The
test was arranged, but there was one condition imposed by all the
clients of the safe-makers. These clients included firms on the Stock
Exchange, jewellers in the West End, even banks in the city. They
combined in protesting against the test unless it was made in secret.
After many discussions this was agreed to. And all the readers of the
newspaper ever heard of the affair, in spite of their optimism and
their hope of seeing photographs of the scientist at work as a burglar,
was a small paragraph which stated that the test had taken place and
that its results were "satisfactory."
The truth was that its results were satisfactory to only one of the
parties. That one was Joseph Billiter. He had cut through the strongest
safe made as if it were cheese.
How had he done this? you may ask. Simply enough. It is a scientific
fact that any safe made by heat can be destroyed by a greater heat. And
after he had bored his way into that safe he gave the small company
another lecture, in which he made one admission. It was to the effect
that the only place that was burglar-proof was a specially built bank
vault, and then it beat the average burglar because it had several
doors and an outside gate, and to get through these required time.
In reality, it was time that beat the criminal, not the actual vault
itself.
Now, the safe-breaker is certainly the most efficient of all criminals.
One cannot be a safe-breaker unless one possesses patience, ingenuity,
knowledge. Billiter demonstrated several methods. He used a powerful
electric drill, operating it by tapping the cable in the building and
showing how a modern burglar could thus add insult to injury if he knew
his business. Then he used an oxy-acetylene burner. These burners give
an intensity of heat of 3,000 degrees Centigrade--sufficient to cut
through the hardest steel as if it were butter. The drawback to this
method is the transportation of the oxygen and acetylene cylinders
needed.
There was, again, the dynamite and nitro-glycerine method which he
showed, and he gave the spectators much information that was new even
to the police, representatives of whom were also present. He showed
how, by boiling several sticks of dynamite for a certain time, the
"grease," as it is called in the profession, is prepared. This "grease"
is actually the stuff used so that there will not be too much noise. It
can be carried to the scene of operation in a bottle, and, after a hole
is drilled in the safe, it is filled with this "grease," covered with
soap, and a fuse is inserted.
Joseph Billiter's demonstrations were very conclusive, and proved what
the police have known for many years, namely, that the safe-breaker is
the very top-notch man of crime. But success went to his head. He was
still young, and he was very conceited, while he was very able. We do
not know exactly what incident proved the downfall of Billiter. I fancy
it was a woman, or women. It may have been wine, but that was not his
failing originally. I seem to remember that he got tied up with a fast
set up West, a set that frequented night-clubs and cabaret dancers'
haunts. At any rate, he was discharged from his post. He did not get
another.
For a time he disappeared from this country. It was said that he went
to America; but one thing is certain; when he was next heard of he had
turned crook. It is more than likely that he adopted this profession
when he was abroad, for he felt very bitter at his discharge, and
constantly declared that if Society would not give him the opportunity
to live he would have his revenge--a sort of Bolshevik theory of
injustice and injury turned to rebellion.
There were several safes burgled in and around London that caused
the police to suspect a master craftsman such as he could be. He was
shadowed, watched, suspected, but he was never caught red-handed. He
always had an alibi, always a perfect defence. But everything pointed
to suspicion of him. He married a girl who lived with crooks long
before he became a criminal--that is, lived among them and knew their
ways and their works. She was one of his assets.
Carney, the detective whose duty it was to investigate these
burglaries, was convinced that they were the work of Billiter and no
other. This belief almost became an obsession. He tried time after time
to catch Billiter. He had him questioned; he questioned the people who
supported his alibis; he kept on his trail; but he was always defeated.
Billiter never seemed to make a mistake.
One evening Billiter went out on what he anticipated would be one of
his best raids. It was a jeweller's shop within a hundred yards of
Charing Cross. To see how he worked, let us observe him coming up from
the cellar where the safe of his firm was kept.
The job had been done, and Joseph Billiter crept up the stone steps.
The goods he had stolen were in his pockets and in the special belt
strapped round his waist. He had placed over a hundred gold watches in
this belt, in little compartments, every one worth a considerable sum,
for he never took cheap goods. In his pockets were pearls, pendants,
rings, brooches, necklaces. Taking him as he stood he was, at that
moment, worth a few thousands of pounds sterling.
He closed the trap-door gently, and, stooping low, crossed the shop
floor and made his way upstairs to the next storey. All was dark here.
The single light which cast a dim glow through the shop on the ground
floor had been his one danger, for from the street it was just possible
that an inquiring policeman might peer through the slit in the iron
shutter at exactly the moment Joseph was to be seen. Yet, even then, he
would not have identified Billiter; but he would have raised an alarm.
This passage from the cellar trap-door to the stairs leading aloft was
the one risk Billiter faced.
As will be understood, the opening of the safe was not, to such an
expert craftsman as himself, a real risk. He had made no noise, and he
wore rubber gloves, which were thin and did not hamper his fingers
as ordinary gloves might. There was also another advantage of rubber
gloves. Some of the owners of safes had lately taken to leaving live
electric wires in positions so that a burglar might be tempted to grasp
them, and get shocks that would throw him into a state of panic. It
would not, of course, kill him; but to a man like Billiter all these
things were child's play. He knew how to evade such traps as well as
the best.
Having negotiated the space between the cellar and the staircase,
Billiter had still much farther to go. He never rushed. Standing in
the darkness that enveloped the upper showroom and the offices of the
firm, he listened intently. From the Strand came the distinct hum of
taxicabs and the occasional scream of their hooters. The buses were
thundering past. In a short time the streets would be crammed with the
crowds coming from the theatres, and, by joining these crowds, Billiter
had planned to make his escape without observation. For the present
he was not merely listening to the traffic. He was anxious to hear if
the policeman on the beat had seen him as he crossed the ground floor
downstairs.
He thought he had heard a footstep under the back window. He tiptoed
over to the window-sill and peered down obliquely. Yes, there was
someone underneath. Had the policeman been watching? He prepared for
flight.
Billiter was not afraid that he had been recognised, for he still wore
the mask he had donned when he entered the premises. Nor was he afraid
of being caught. His entrance had been by a way that was anything but
direct. An ordinary burglar would have come into the shop by the back
door, or by the side window. A very daring one might have bored his
way through the wall from the premises next door, which were under
repair at the time. But Joseph Billiter was not an ordinary burglar,
even if he was a daring one. He had come to the store by a circuitous
route, and he was making his exit the same way--a route that proved his
superiority over usual methods.
It was because he had entered in this round-about fashion that he did
not fear capture. A policeman, seeing an intruder, would go to the back
door; he would call a colleague or two, and they would block likely
exits before they entered to search. But by that time Billiter would be
gone, without leaving a single clue for them to follow.
He moved back from the window and noiselessly opened a door that led
to the top floor. He closed the door after him, locking it with one of
his skeleton keys. He went up the narrow staircase without a sound. He
was now in the workshop of the store, a small apartment in which were
several benches, polishing wheels, and racks littered with the repair
jobs of the firm. This room was really an attic, with one dormer window
leading to the tiles. Billiter had left the dormer window open when he
entered. He now made his exit by it, and pulled it down slowly as he
lay with his feet braced against the coping-stone.
He crawled for some distance along the coping on his hands and knees
until he reached a flat roof, in the middle of which a square glass
studio was built. He was now two doors away from the jewellery shop.
Once more his long skeleton key went to work in the lock of the door.
He slipped into the studio, once more locking the door behind him.
He knew quite well where he was; he had studied every yard of the
way he had travelled. He was just about to leave the studio by going
downstairs when he stopped and drew back. Someone was coming up.
He retreated behind a large piece of furniture and pulled a small
revolver from his pocket. He had never used his gun on any of his
burglarious expeditions, but he always carried it, nevertheless. He did
not want to kill; but a gun was always handy to intimidate, to menace,
to scare. He told himself that all he needed to do was to put the fear
of death into whomsoever was coming up to the room, manœuvre towards
the door, and dash out, locking it from the outside. It was a simple
enough plan; such a one had served him previously. As he crouched
behind the furniture the opposite door of the studio opened, there was
a faint "click," and the room was flooded with light.
"Put out that light!"
Billiter's order whipped across the apartment like the crack of a whip.
By the door stood a man in his shirt-sleeves, his hands wet, as if he
had been washing them. Billiter slid from behind the piece of furniture.
He knew the room quite well. He saw around the shelves were several
bottles and jars; pictures were hung on the walls, large and small
photographs. From the centre of the ceiling a large, powerful arc lamp
was suspended, but this was not the light that was illuminating the
studio. The arc lamp was controlled by a hanging pear-switch, the other
by a switch on the wall next the door.
The man in the shirt-sleeves was standing on the threshold, startled
and hesitating. The sight of a masked burglar had, for the moment,
unnerved him.
"Put out that light!"
This time Billiter's revolver was raised. The man obeyed instinctively,
without a word; and as the light was extinguished another bored a small
circle through the darkness and fell on the figure by the door. This
second light came from an electric torch which Billiter held in his
left hand.
"What are you doing here?" demanded the man at the door. "This
studio----"
"Cut that out! Step over here and I won't harm you!"
Billiter jerked his torch in the direction he wished the man to walk;
but just then the other seemed to overcome his surprise and fright.
He stooped, and raised the first thing that came to his hand and
threw it with all his force at the gleaming torch. What he threw was
inoffensive enough. It was a cushion taken from a chair near the door;
but it caught Billiter full in the face, making him drop his torch and
bringing an oath to his lips.
"Don't move!" he cried swiftly. "If you make a step I'll shoot!"
The warning halted the man by the door. He did not see, in the gloom,
that his missile had torn the mask from Billiter's face just then; but
he saw it a moment later, when Billiter stooped to regain his torch,
the light of which, as he lifted it, suddenly flashed across his
features.
"Stand away from that door!" roared Billiter harshly.
As he spoke he threw the torchlight full on the man once more, jerking
it commandingly. He did not want to shoot, angry though he was. He knew
the consequences of shooting, and he shrank from murder; besides, the
noise of the shot might disturb others. Billiter was playing his game
of bluff, of menace, confidently. He saw, by the changing expression on
the man's face, that his mind was a prey to swift and changing emotions
and ideas. But Billiter held the winning hand. If it came to a fight,
he could always shoot; but he would shoot only to frighten.
The man moved hesitatingly from the doorway. Billiter took a step
towards it. It was like a game of draughts, each man taking a step,
cat-like, watching his opponent, the one gliding towards the interior
of the apartment, the other towards the exit.
Suddenly the man seemed to lose his nerve, and ran forward to hide
behind the heavy piece of furniture which was placed, easel-like, under
the hanging arc lamp, and was covered by a dust sheet. Billiter knew
then that he had won. The man was scared stiff. But a scared man may
be dangerous, and as Billiter threw his torchlight on the spot he saw
the man's hand go up as if to reach the pear-switch. Billiter aimed and
fired at the hand.
There was a smash of glass, a cry as one of the bottles on a distant
shelf crashed down, and then a blinding flash filled the room. The
glare made Billiter's eyes sting. He could no longer see things, but he
dashed for the door, switching out his torch. He reached the door and
closed it at his heels, and turned the key in the lock. Then he stood
blinking in the darkness of the landing.
"Some of his blinking chemicals," he muttered. "I hit his hand too.
That will be a lesson to him not to try tricks. One thing, he never saw
me properly, so he can't identify me."
He went down the stairs, confident still, his eyes a little misty, but
they soon cleared and he was able to see normally. He no longer feared
pursuit, since he had locked the door behind him. He reached the ground
floor, put his mask in his pocket, and went out.
A few minutes later he was in the Strand, one of the crowd that was
moving along. He was safe. All he had to do now was to present an alibi
with which to face the police.
He knew they would make inquiries. He knew Carney would come to see
him, as he always came. The same old things would be said, the same old
questions asked and answered. He had begun to laugh at the suspicions
the police had of him. He had grown used to being suspected. But
suspicion is one thing and evidence is another. He never gave them
evidence.
In this case he had worked with his usual caution and luck. He
reflected, as he walked along, that he had just fired the shot in
time. The intruder had hoped to throw his big light on him; perhaps he
had intended to attack as soon as the studio was lit up. The shot had
prevented this, as it had also prevented any chance of his own identity
being discovered.
It had taken Billiter some time to work out this burglary. First he had
observed the position of the store. He had never dreamed of entering it
by its own doorways. He had observed the premises on either side. One
was a small teashop of the kind that provides light suppers and quick
lunches. It remained open until after the theatres closed, so that
entrance could not possibly be made that way.
Billiter found his means on the other side of the store. Next door
to the jeweller's was a sweet-shop, with offices above. Next the
sweet-shop was an outfitter's, occupying two floors. The third floor
was used as a photographic studio--one of the kind where passport
portraits are turned out in a hurry. Because this studio was erected on
a flat roof Billiter chose it as his line of advance.