prices; but as he held the assistant in conversation his eyes were on
the flat roof beyond the glass studio. He found out when the premises
closed at night. Then he made his raid.
The appearance of the photographer just when Billiter was making his
escape was but one of the incidents that could not have been foreseen,
a risk that had always to be taken; and it was because he was aware
of such unexpected possibilities that Billiter carried his revolver.
Without it he would have no advantage over an antagonist--a fatal
condition for one whose great problem was always escape.
Billiter did not loiter in the Strand. He mounted a bus at Aldwych and
rode on the top eastwards. Just beyond the limits of the City proper
he got off, and hurried to the destination where he desired to dispose
of his loot--the house of a receiver of stolen property. A price was
offered and accepted, and Billiter received the hard cash he wanted.
He knew that in a few hours the jewellery would be dissected, the gold
would be in the melting-pot, and all traces would have vanished.
Having thus dealt with the proceeds of the robbery, the next step
was to provide an alibi with which to face the police, and especially
Carney, the man-hunter whom Billiter hated (and perhaps feared a little
too) more than any other. You see, Carney, if not brilliant, was
dogged. He had looked up Billiter's career, and knew his descent, step
by step. That descent was curious, for not only had Billiter adopted
the manner of criminals; he had adopted the speech of the ordinary East
End crook, whose mentality he despised and whose habits he loathed.
Indeed, it appeared that he was not only at war with Society, but was
also annoyed at his own failings and weaknesses.
In the present instance he had taken Carney into his calculations as
usual, and had made provision for the detective's moves. He found
everything set as he anticipated when he reached home, which he entered
just before midnight. His wife was preparing a late supper, and in the
mean sitting-room were several acquaintances. They greeted his arrival
with eagerness.
"Everything all right?" asked his wife, a heavy-featured woman who had
once been pretty.
"Yes. What was the show like?"
"Fair. We're newly home. Supper's ready."
As they ate the meal, Billiter handed money to each. It was their pay,
for they worked to his plans, ready to swear an alibi when asked.
When his guests had gone, Billiter hid his tools and most of the money
under the floorboards. His wife watched him curiously.
"Sure everything's right, Joe?"
"What's frightening you?"
"Carney. The last time he was here he said he'd get you. He said you'd
make a mistake some time."
"Aw, Carney couldn't get me, nor anybody else, with the defence I've
raised. Ain't we able to put forward plenty of witnesses? He wasn't
on duty last night. I know his hours. Give me that half-ticket of the
show."
She handed over the torn portion of the entrance ticket to the theatre,
which she had retained. He put it into his waistcoat pocket.
"Ain't that proof?" he grinned. "Carney can't get over that. I'm going
to bed. If he comes at all, he won't come before morning."
His knowledge of police routine was sound; they had just finished
breakfast, and Billiter was reading a newspaper, when a knock sounded
on the door. Joseph glanced at his wife knowingly.
"Let him in. I'll bet it's Carney."
It was Carney, and with him was another man in plain clothes. They
entered quietly, and Carney sat down on a chair facing Billiter.
"There was a burglary in the Strand last night," he announced quietly.
"I was just beginning to read about it in the paper," answered
Billiter, glowering. "Go on, get the questions over. I know you've
come to try to pin it on me."
"It looks like your work, Billiter."
"Aw, you've said that before about other things. It makes me tired. I
suppose the cop on the beat saw a man, and you jumped to it that it was
me, same as you have done before? And then I've to show you that it
couldn't have been me. You've got a down on me, Carney, that's what."
"The burglar last night got away with a lot of stuff," went on
Carney, taking no notice of the indignation of Billiter. "He entered
a jewellery store by crawling along the roof. As for the policeman on
the beat, he didn't see anybody. But the burglar got clear away after
shooting at a man who tried to stop him."
"Humph!"
Billiter was as cool as usual. He suppressed a smile. He had asked the
question about the policeman on the beat as a feeler; he wanted to make
sure if he had really been seen, or if he himself had guessed right in
regard to the figure under the window in the yard. The answer relieved
him immensely. He now knew that the figure under the window must have
been that of the worker coming up to the studio.
He folded the newspaper on his knees and faced Carney.
"Well? Spit it out. You've been after me long enough."
"I've always hoped to get you--you and your friends."
"Keep on hoping, then."
It was a jeer, but they knew each other well enough to dispense with
formalities. The duel had begun again.
Carney was a big man, heavy and rotund--a contrast to Billiter, who was
wiry and agile. The detective seemed too deliberate for Billiter. He
was on edge to get Carney away; he wanted to hurry the examination.
"Have you come to prove that I did it?" he demanded.
"Can you prove that you didn't?"
"You bet. I'll give you an alibi that'll satisfy any magistrate."
"In that case you will be able to tell me where you were between the
hours of nine and eleven last evening. I'd like a statement."
He made a motion to the plain-clothes man beside him, and the latter
prepared to write in his note-book. Billiter felt amused. He had
seen the same performance on previous occasions. It was always the
same--questions and answers, then inquiries to prove the statements,
and after that nothing happened. This time Billiter did not wait for
the questions. He brought the torn theatre ticket from his waistcoat
pocket and threw it on the table.
"That'll tell you where I was."
Carney looked at the ticket, examining it thoughtfully.
"You were at this theatre?"
"That's what I'm telling you. Some friends were with me. I'll give you
their names, if you like."
"We'll take them down right away."
The plain-clothes man wrote the names and addresses down as Billiter
gave them. The latter's wife stood behind the writer, biting her lip
as she watched his pencil glide across the paper. Carney looked up and
caught her eye.
"Were you with your husband at the theatre?" he asked.
"Yes," she snapped.
Carney rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then turned to his colleague.
"Better go along to these people right away and take their statements
and signatures. Mrs. Billiter will go with you to direct you. And
notify them to come to the station before midday."
"Going to question them there?" snarled Billiter bitterly. "Maybe
you'll want their finger-prints too. You officials give me a pain."
He pulled out his pipe and began to fill it from a tobacco-jar held
between his knees. His wife and the plain-clothes officer departed
as he was striking a match. The first puff of smoke had just escaped
Billiter's lips when Carney rose to his feet.
"And now," he said, "I think you'd better be coming along."
"Where to?"
"The station."
"Same old routine, Carney. I know all about it. I go there, and you
write out a long rigmarole, and I sign. And then I walk out until the
next time you get a hunch----"
"Not this time, Billiter. You won't walk out this time."
Billiter threw his match down with a gesture of protest.
"You can't detain me," he cried. "You haven't got a charge, and I've
given you a perfect alibi."
"The alibi doesn't work on this occasion, Billiter. It is too perfect.
Listen to me. The photographer's assistant who came back to the studio
to develop some prints has given us a statement. The burglar tried
to keep the studio in darkness so as to escape, but as he was making
for the door he passed the screen usually used for portraits, and the
assistant reached for the hanging switch that controls the camera."
"Well?" cried Billiter.
"The result was that a flashlight picture of the room was taken, and we
have a portrait of the burglar with his mask down about his neck. Here
it is."
He threw on the table a large print, in which Joseph Billiter was shown
in the very act of firing his revolver.
"As for the alibi your friends helped you to make up," went on Carney,
"I expected that defence, as usual, from you, but I'll rope them in on
a charge of making false declarations. Now will you come quietly?"
"I'll come," said Billiter hoarsely. "You've got me at last, Carney."
And Carney marched him off.
* * * * *
The Governor paused, and glanced at his visitor.
"I daresay," he remarked, "you have noticed how events of importance
sometimes have a way of treading on each other's heels, so to speak.
It was while he was making arrangements at the police station for the
disposal of Joseph Billiter that Carney came into touch with the last
case that interested the celebrated Dr. Caffyn, criminologist and
pathologist. It was he who had so often advanced his theory of a cure
for murder----"
"A cure?" interrupted the visitor.
"That is what Dr. Caffyn called it. A case had just cropped up that
enabled him to apply his tests finally in front of Carney, who, as
you know, was opposed to theories. It was a curious case, and baffled
investigators greatly."
"Did Dr. Caffyn find a cure?" asked the visitor scornfully.
"The best way to answer that question is to show you how Dr. Caffyn
arrived at the answer; and this I intend to do right away."
THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE THIRTEENTH CELL
Having refreshed himself from the glass at his elbow, the Governor
then began the story of the occupant of the thirteenth cell, while his
visitor, beyond a glance at the clock, made no attempt to interrupt.
The fact was that the visitor found this eccentric prison official very
entertaining.
* * * * *
There is no doubt (said the Governor) that, of all crimes, murder is
at once the most interesting and the most repellent. On the average we
have about one hundred and fifty every year in Britain, and, though
this may seem a large number, it is small compared with the record of
some American cities--Chicago, for instance--where the average is about
one per day. We are also in the happier position, if you will allow
me to say so--I speak from the point of view of a representative of
the law--of having a much smaller number of murders unsolved. Indeed,
there are very few in Britain that have not been brought home to the
culprits----
"I could name a few," cried the visitor triumphantly. "Since the year
1912 there has been a growing list of undiscovered killers, and most of
them were killers of women. Take the case, in 1919, of Mrs. Ridgley,
of Hitchin; of Miss Nellie Rault, at Bedford, a few months later; of
Nurse Shore in a Hastings train the following year; of Mrs. Buxton,
at Chelsea, shortly afterwards; of Henrietta Weightman, at Bushey, in
1921; of Miss Lawn, at Cambridge, and Violet Mansfield, at Farnham,
both the same year; and there are others--Mrs. Luard, at Sevenoaks;
Emily Dimmock at Camden Town, Lily Templeton at Brixton, a child named
Bailes at the Elephant and Castle, the boy Willie Starchfield. There's
a list to go on with."
I realise (replied the Governor) that you have taken great interest in
those crimes to have them so glibly on your tongue, but it may be that
there were exceptional circumstances at work in those instances which
you do not take into account. I do not claim that the police, and the
law, are always flawless and that they are without failure. But what
have you proved? That out of, say one hundred and fifty, one person
has succeeded in escaping. I think you have even here over-estimated
the chances of escape, slender though they are on your own showing;
but if I were to give you proof of this I might incur the penalty of
infringing the Act which binds Governors, as well as the humblest of
prison staffs, to secrecy in certain matters. I am not saying that such
an Act is good, or that it is bad. I am a servant and carry out my
orders.
As for those who have escaped, I could mention a dozen for your one
of those who, by all the laws of chance and calculation, ought to
have escaped, but did not. The man Bennett, who murdered his wife on
Yarmouth sands a score or so years ago, was convicted because of a
gold chain which he gave away to a girl in a moment of forgetfulness.
Bodart, the Frenchman, who murdered a widow, was discovered because of
the grease spot on his clothes, the dripping of a candle. The finding
of a few brads was the cause of the conviction of a boot repairer named
Lafargue, who murdered Madame du Bois. The famous Professor Webster
was sent to the scaffold because he forgot that, while he might burn
to ashes the body of his victim, Dr. Parkman, the latter's false teeth
were made of a composition that resisted fire. Wainwright made a
similar mistake when he tried to destroy traces of a murder by covering
the body with chloride of lime, which preserves and does not destroy.
The man who shot Mrs. Breaks at Blackpool had filed off the maker's
name from the outside plate of the revolver, but did not know that the
name was also printed on the backbone inside. A child's claim to the
ownership of a toy lantern was the cause of Fowler being hanged for the
Muswell Hill crime. In Buckinghamshire a cobweb on a man's shoulder
took him to the condemned cell.
And what shall we say of those would-be assassins who, though they have
thought out their schemes, have either erred at the crucial moment, or
have been caught by a simple, unforeseen circumstance? I could tell
you of cases wherein it might seem that the intended victims have a
charm against violent deaths. The present King of Spain, who has come
to London quite often, has a private collection of relics of incidents
where he was saved from the assassin's murderous intent. Many monarchs
have likewise escaped. Only recently we have had the most prominent man
of Italy telling his friends, after an attempt on his life, that it was
useless for enemies to try to kill him. What a faith!
All this, of course, leads us back to the primary question: Why do men
commit murder? It was this question that Dr. Caffyn had considered for
many years. As a matter of fact, Dr. Caffyn was writing a treatise on
the subject when the ringing of his telephone bell interrupted his
labours. Detective Carney was at the other end of the wire, telling him
that a murder had been committed.
Dr. Caffyn was a man of method, not one to be easily thrown from his
well-trained habits; and he was training his only son, Dick, to walk in
his own footsteps. Both father and son were fine specimens of men; both
were surgeons, both were pathologists, but the son was sufficiently
independent not to accept every theory put forward by the parent
without himself being convinced of its accuracy.
It was because he wished to put his theories to the test in front of
his son that Dr. Caffyn was regretful that Richard was not present when
the telephone message informed him of this new case.
The first thing that Dr. Caffyn did after having received the message
was to sit down again at his desk and add a few sentences to the
treatise he was writing. The sentences seemed to be singularly
appropriate. Here are the sentences which the doctor wrote on that
occasion:
"The answer to the question, why a man commits a murder, is to be found
in the state of the man's mind. To understand this mental state we must
analyse the mind's material counterpart--the brain. The problem becomes
pathological. The lower forms of life are governed by instinct and
rude emotion where self-control is practically absent. Self-control is
gained by education."
There Dr. Caffyn stopped. He then pressed an electric button on his
desk and waited. The door of his study opened, and his man appeared on
the threshold.
"Jones, has Mr. Richard arrived yet?"
"No, sir," replied the man, "but he is expected any minute for dinner."
"I shall not be able to see him at dinner," said Dr. Caffyn, "but when
he comes tell him that I hope to join him at the theatre. I am leaving
a ticket for him in case I do not come back. There has been a murder
and I am called away. You needn't wait up for us. We shall have supper
in town. See that we are awakened early to-morrow, and that his things
are packed. He is going to lecture at college to-morrow."
The man bowed and withdrew.
Dr. Caffyn fingered his watch-chain absently, his brows contracted. He
had hoped to work much longer at the manuscript in development of his
views on murder and the question of capital punishment. But he had to
go where duty called, and in a few minutes he was walking rapidly along
the street.
Let me here point out that Dr. Caffyn had held for many years the
position of perhaps the most famous pathologist in London. His
knowledge was so great that he was retained by the authorities to aid
them with his evidence. He had for years been on practically every kind
of murder case as soon as the police. He had been called to examine
murderers as well as their victims. At the trials his voice was the
voice of authority. He was as steeped in the science of psychology in
relation to crime as he was steeped in the pathological knowledge of
it. To those who advocated the abolition of the death sentence Dr.
Caffyn was an opponent whose scientific reasoning could not be answered.
He was thinking of his manuscript when he reached the block of flats
where this latest murder had been committed. It was a fashionable
district, such as are becoming more and more common in London--blocks
of flats with silent lifts to every floor and stairs carpeted with
rich material. A policeman at the door saluted as Dr. Caffyn presented
himself. He directed Dr. Caffyn to the flat where he was expected.
The victim was a woman. She lay on her settee, her head thrown back and
her rounded arms stretched limply over the upholstery. She had been a
very pretty girl; was, indeed, still beautiful even in death. Her age
was about twenty-five or twenty-six. A bullet had caught her square in
the forehead.
The weapon from which the bullet had been fired was in the hands of
Carney, who stood on the other side of the settee. He was examining the
revolver, which was one of service pattern.
Dr. Caffyn returned the greeting of Detective Carney with a curt nod.
He was more interested in the dead woman than in the weapon with which
she had been killed. A few drops of red stained her golden shaded
semi-evening gown, turning the colour of the fabric to a strange and
fascinating hue. Beyond a smear of blood half hidden by her wealth of
bobbed hair there was nothing to mar her beauty. She had bled inwardly
and had died at once.
"We thought it was suicide at first, sir," said Carney, "but the
finding of this revolver on the rug and a man's glove puts that out of
court. It's murder."
Dr. Caffyn nodded and slipped his sensitive fingers along the wrist of
the dead woman. It was merely a formal matter. Her pulse had stopped
when the bullet cut short her young life.
"She has been dead for about an hour," said the doctor quietly. "Yes,
it is murder. The shot was fired from the chair on the other side of
the fireplace."
There were no signs of a struggle, no agonising contortions of the
victim's features. Her eyes were open, almost wide. The blue pupils
were slightly turned upward, and seemed to express mild surprise. There
was a hint of a smile on the well-moulded features. Her lips were
parted, showing heavy traces of lipstick. Her teeth were white and
dazzling. There were rings on her fingers. On her feet were a pair of
small, green slippers, half buried in a thick woollen rug in front of
the gas fire, which was burning.
There she lay, retaining her attractiveness, her pose suggesting the
audacity and daring which even death could not subdue.
"Who was she?" asked Dr. Caffyn.
"An actress--a chorus girl. Gladys Crieff," replied Carney. "She lived
in this flat with a maid. She was due at the theatre this evening. It
was the maid who gave the alarm."
Carney gave his replies shortly because he did not want the specialist
to begin theorising. He wanted to get on with the hunt for the
criminal. He distrusted the intricacies of psychology and the
conclusions of pathology. He got his men by team work, by inquiry, by
elimination; which was the recognised method of the police.
"It is a _crime passionnel_, some love affair that has ended
disastrously, I suspect," said the doctor. "I fancy you will find it
so, Carney."
The officer was a little nettled at the swift conclusion.
"I'm not sure of that, sir. It may be that burglary is the cause. Of
course, this girl could not afford to keep up a flat on her own. Chorus
girls can't. But she was not an ordinary chorus girl. She had played
parts, and was waiting to get a leading one in a new show."
"You know her, then?"
"Oh, no. The maid told me, and I verified it on the telephone. Of
course, I didn't spill the news that she was dead. Then there is
something else. The maid says that this girl had a very expensive
necklace and was intending to wear it to-night at the theatre. The case
is here, but the necklace has gone. And I found a small gold watch on
the staircase, which the murderer must have dropped on his way down.
Further, a locket which she had round her neck lay on the settee beside
her. The chain was broken as if it had been snatched from her. A tiny
fragment of a photograph remained in the locket."
"Then you have nothing very substantial as a clue?"
"Oh, we'll manage on what we have, Dr. Caffyn. The maid, whom I have
questioned, is a new one, and did not see the visitor--she was out
shopping; but she says that when she returned she heard voices in the
room, one of them being a man's. The maid had to go out again, but
before she went out she listened, as maids do. She heard the man say
that this dead girl would never belong to anyone but him. And this dead
girl seemed to be soothing his temper."
"Then the maid did not see the man?"
"No, she had to go out again. When she came back the door was open and
she saw--this. I examined the stairs and found a glove. The man left
that. It is a rubber glove. There isn't a finger-print anywhere."
"What about the revolver, Carney?"
"A common service one. No prints on it."
Dr. Caffyn was silent for a moment, looking at the dead woman. Her
beauty was not the beauty of an intellectual woman. It was the beauty
of physique.
"Had she many friends, Carney?"
"You mean men? They generally have. She was to be married soon, I know
that. If she had other friends I'll soon round them up."
"Not a vampire, then?"
"Most likely a butterfly, sir."
Dr. Caffyn looked at his watch and began to button his coat.
"When you find the murderer, Carney, I should like to see him as well,
for observation. There are points of similarity in all murders which I
have noticed. This man, I suspect, is some poor, unbalanced individual
whose brain has been overturned by a flood of jealousy. That is, if he
was the girl's friend. If he was a common burglar, he must also be a
degenerate. Only such an one would kill a woman. A hidden hereditary
instinct suddenly flashed out, and he shot her. Lack of self-control.
Lack of the necessary education. Don't you think so?"
"I don't worry about that. He shot her, and I have to get him. To my
thinking, education has little to do with murder."
Dr. Caffyn raised his head and gazed piercingly at the detective who
had dared to challenge his theories.
"Ah," he said, "I fancy you will agree with me later, Carney. In the
meantime, if you have completed your examination, the body may be
removed. I shall attend the mortuary later and let you have my report
to-night."
"Very good, doctor."
Dr. Caffyn went out.
It was too late to return to his home for dinner and too early to go to
the theatre, so he decided to dine at his club.
He dined alone, as was his custom at the club. He had a favourite seat
by the window, and there he sat apart thinking over the crime. It
seemed to prove to him once again that there was a cure for murder,
just as there was a penalty for it.