intended; but he decided to go and see one act of the play before
returning to the mortuary and making the examination so that his
report would be accurate. A great deal depended on his report. The
counsel for the accused would scrutinise his wording, searching for a
loose expression or a hesitating phrase. He would be in the witness-box
to be questioned and to explain the nature and cause of death. From the
witness-box he would see the prisoner in the dock.
Dr. Caffyn smiled grimly as he thought of this. It was interesting to
him to note the expressions on the faces of prisoners while he gave his
medical testimony. He watched their varying emotions, the functioning
of their brains, as he destroyed the hypotheses which the defending
counsel laboured to erect. As a scientist, Dr. Caffyn was never
embarrassed by the frightfulness of crime. His interest was in studying
the men who had committed the crimes. He studied them in their cells,
from his stand in the witness-box, when they waited for the verdict;
and he had given certificates of their deaths when they had paid the
penalty.
A taxicab drove him quickly to the theatre, where he met his son
Richard. It was in the middle of an act when he arrived, but he did not
hesitate to make his way to the empty stall. He and Richard nodded to
each other, and then they turned to watch the play.
Richard Caffyn was one of the rising young surgeons of the day, heading
straight for a fame, as his colleagues agreed, that would make history
in his profession. But, then, he had his father at his back, a father
who was very proud of his son.
When the curtain fell at the end of the act they sauntered out to the
corridor to enjoy cigarettes. They had reached the doorway when a voice
spoke at the father's elbow.
"Sorry to bother you, doctor, but have you finished the examination?"
Dr. Caffyn turned to see Carney at his side.
"Not yet, Carney, but I'll give you the report to-night. I want you to
meet my son Richard. I think you have heard of him."
Carney shook hands with the young man, and they continued towards the
bar. They sat down on a couch facing the counter.
"Found your degenerate yet, Carney?" asked Dr. Caffyn.
"Not yet, sir, but I'm hoping."
The doctor turned to his son and explained the case in a few sentences.
"Do you know, Dick," he said smilingly, "Carney is too polite to say
he doesn't agree with me, but I know he holds antagonistic theories to
mine generally. But that, I fancy, comes of the discipline and routine
of police methods. I was telling him that undoubtedly all murderers are
degenerates. Look here, Carney, when you are hunting a man, one of the
best rules is to get at what makes him a criminal--for the time being,
of course."
"Well, sir," replied Carney, "I have had some experience in hunting
men, and I find all sorts of things make them bad; especially
murderers. Fear, hate, love, lust, selfishness, greed--these are some,
but there are others."
"I agree, and yet I have a notion that a cure for murder may be found."
"A cure?"
"Yes, a cure. Dick, my boy, you know my theories. Now, take this murder
to-night. I told Jones to tell you why I had been called away----"
"He told me," replied Dick, who was looking absently towards the bar
and listening to the orchestra. "Have you been trying to convert Carney
to your point of view?"
"I have, but it takes some doing. Let us go into it again, Carney. The
reasons you have named are but the forces that convert the thought of
murder into the act. We must get behind that. The murder-plan has its
origin in pathology in most cases. In a few one finds it in psychology."
"We do not deal in these sciences when we are after a man," said Carney
doggedly.
"Perhaps not. You represent the material side. I represent the other.
Yet it is material in the end. The mind governs the brain. We have two
brains, an upper and a lower. The upper functions in thought. The lower
functions in emotions and instincts which require no thought. This
lower brain is in every animal that has a skull. It is this brain which
functions when men commit murder. Civilisation has developed the upper
brain; and murderers are men whose upper brain is primitive. That is
what I mean by a degenerate."
"Does it matter much?" asked Carney.
"It matters a great deal. It supplies the key to the great mystery as
to why men commit murder."
"How about your cure?"
"Ah, the cure. It is pathological."
The bell above the bar buzzed, signalling that the curtain was about to
rise again, but the three men did not take notice of it.
"I'm not sure, father," said Richard Caffyn, "that I don't find sound
sense in what Detective Carney says. Pathology can only apply to
habitual criminals. Spasmodic acts are outside rules."
The detective glanced at Dick and nodded.
"My job is to get my man," he persisted. "I don't think we shall ever
find a cure for murder, with all respect to your father's knowledge."
"Tut, tut," cried Dr. Caffyn. "There you are again, ignoring all I
desire you to observe! Pathology is the science of the nature, cause,
and remedy of disease. Murder is disease. It is degeneracy. The causes
of degeneracy are several--among which are debauchery, depravity,
poverty."
"Murderers are not always poor men," said the detective.
"No, but they are always degenerates. They have reverted to the
primitive type. The animalism of their forebears clings to them. Dick,
you and I have talked this over----"
"That is true, father, but still there is a lot in what the detective
says. I cannot always agree with you, as you know. Let me put it this
way."
He turned and spread out his hand as if he were delivering a lecture at
his hospital.
"There are such things as uncontrollable impulses. Take the case
of a mother who sacrifices herself to save her child. She does not
think. It is her lower brain that is working--her instinct. She is not
responsible, really, for the act, yet she is heroic----"
"But, Dick----"
"Wait a moment, father. I am trying to show that there is a force, or
forces, against which we cannot fight. Pathology does not enter here.
Psychology may. In any case, the law does not take much note of either,
as Carney says. I could put up a good case for impulsive acts arising
from instinctive and automatic feelings. Is a man responsible when
urged to act under a wave of extreme emotion?"
"The law says," replied Carney, "that acts are irresponsible only when
a person does not know the nature or quality of those acts."
"In that case, the best plan would be for a defence to put forward a
suggestion of insanity. The truth is we are hard put to it to define
responsibility. It is a tangle of conflicting emotions."
He yawned and strolled towards the bar to get a match for his cigarette.
"Dick will come round to my view after he has had experience," said the
doctor to Carney, "and so will you. At present he does not distinguish
between compulsive acts and obsessions, which are two different terms.
They do not affect the result, however. Heredity--there you find the
reason for most cases of degeneration. If we admit such arguments as my
son has put forward we might as well abolish the death penalty."
"As for me," retorted Carney, "I have seen cases where the death
penalty might have been better set aside--and I say that though I
brought such men to the cells."
"There may be cases of persons who are utterly insane--raving
lunatics--but for the others of man-kind the one law must remain.
Society must be protected. I commend these views to you in the course
of your labours--for instance, in the case of this girl who was shot
this evening."
Detective Carney was silent for a few moments.
"What was your cure, doctor?" he asked quietly.
"My cure for murder lies in the future generations. If a man commits a
murder there is no proof that he may not commit another. There is only
one way to deal with him. He must be removed--painlessly if you like,
but effectively."
The detective did not answer, and seemed to be pondering the
standpoint of the specialist. The doctor went on.
"If we remove evil environment and substitute education for ignorance
we shall have no more murders. That is a pathological fact, and when
you have found your man in this case----"
"We'll find him, sir."
"Very well. When the trial comes off I shall certainly use all my
influence to oppose the torrent of sympathy which seems to go out at
every recent case towards the criminal in this country. Think of the
dead girl! Is it safe for the community that a man who deliberately
took her life should live? Is it wise that he should be kept alive?"
"Well, there may be the plea of insanity----"
"Bah, that has become a common plea! Murder by a proved maniac is an
exception to the general rule. You know that as well as I do. The only
safe cure for murder is to send the guilty into oblivion and educate
the community."
Detective Carney got to his feet, gnawing at his moustache. He had
spent more time than he had expected.
"Are you going to remain until the play is over, sir?" he asked.
"Oh, that report!"
"I really wanted to suggest, sir, that if you could let us have it
immediately we should be obliged. I could get a taxi for you, right
away. I was asked to see you about it and to suggest----"
Dr. Caffyn sighed and nodded. He was a slave to duty.
"Very well. I'll have the taxi. Shall I dismiss it at the mortuary?"
"Why, sir, you could just keep it and bring your report to the station,
where it is expected. I may be there when you arrive, as I have a call
to make on this case."
"All right, I'll tell my son."
He went out with Carney, and the latter obtained a cab and sent the
doctor off. As he rode to the mortuary, the doctor wondered if he had
been wasting his breath on Carney; he was, at least, sure that the
detective did not fully appreciate all he had been saying.
The examination of the victim at the mortuary was not lengthy. When it
was over Dr. Caffyn made his notes and ordered the driver to hurry to
the police station.
As he entered the reception-room, he saw Detective Carney standing with
his back to the fire. A frown was on Carney's face.
"There is the report, Carney," said the doctor. "What are you worried
about? Have you been thinking over what I told you, or have you failed
to get your man?"
"We have got him, sir," replied Carney, coughing.
"Got him? Congratulations. A degenerate, I'll wager, as I said. May
I have a look at him--just a look, or a word, maybe, to support my
theory? You promised."
The detective nodded and led the way to the cells. As he was about to
put the key into a door, the surgeon touched him on the shoulder.
"A _crime passionnel_--and a primitive brain, I suppose? Or perhaps a
burglar of the base type?"
"He has written a confession," said Carney, without looking at the
doctor. "He shot her because she threw him over for another man."
He swung the door open. The prisoner, his face buried in his hands, was
huddled in a corner of the cell.
He raised a haggard countenance to the visitors.
Dr. Caffyn looked into the face of his son.
THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE FOURTEENTH CELL
The visitor looked at the clock once more.
"Don't you think," he said in a grave tone, "that in the recital of
these stories, which I confess are full of interest and are the best I
have ever heard, you are losing sight of the reason of my presence?"
"Not at all. I have kept that constantly before me, I assure you,"
smiled the Governor. "But to a man in my position the great matter is
to cram into the limited time at his disposal as much of the work he
most desires done before----"
He stopped, and the visitor interpreted the wave of hand which the
Governor made.
"I understand," said the visitor. "To tell the truth, I shall not
relish the business of killing you, but if you leave me no alternative,
what can I do? I merely point out that time is slipping past rapidly.
It is now some time after dawn--a while after, in fact. The limit I set
you is within measurable distance."
"Alas," said the Governor, "how true it is that time waits for no man!
Let me repeat that I had for my object the desire to prove to you that
criminals make mistakes in practically all cases. I have shown you how,
in a selection of the most carefully planned and deliberately executed
crimes, the unforeseen something gave the law-breakers away. But did
you notice, in the case of the story I have just ended, that there is
one point left in the air, so to speak--one item unexplained?"
"I fancy I did. You mentioned that a necklace was missing from that
chorus girl's flat. You did not say if young Caffyn had taken it. I
thought it must have been one of his presents."
The Governor shook his head.
"I have the greatest pleasure in congratulating you on your
observance," he said pleasantly. "The item I was compelled to leave
unexplained was the disappearance of the necklace. Richard Caffyn did
not take it, and the police hunted high and low for it. As a matter of
fact, it had been stolen by Alfred Mushet."
"Who is Alfred Mushet?" asked the visitor.
"He is at present in the fourteenth cell, and he is there because he
made one of the most curious mistakes ever heard of in crime. And
so, though I observe that you are inclined to be impatient--which I
perfectly understand--I do, in the words of the charming Scheherazade
whose example I am following, humbly entreat you to listen to the queer
history of Alfred Mushet. I promise that the time will not be wasted."
The Governor then began in these terms:
* * * * *
One day, some weeks after the tragic death of Gladys Crieff, the
actress, Alfred Mushet stood in the shop of Abe Hartz, a little
be-spectacled Jew in the East End. Mushet was in a temper, and he did
not disguise it.
"It is no good denying anything," he cried fiercely. "You can't deny
it. I left my attaché-case with you yesterday. You promised to look
after it until I came back. Just you hand it over."
"You 'ave called me many names without letting me eggsplain," answered
Hartz mildly, as he clawed at his beard and gazed innocently through
his thick spectacles. "It was not me that you gif your case to. You
mus' come back."
"I want it now, you old crook! I'm in a hurry. Don't finger your
spectacles, but get a move on and look for my attaché-case!"
"But I cannot see without my spectacles," smiled Hartz. "And even with
them I cannot see your case. Go away and then come back----"
"I will not come back. You hand the case over, or you'll be sorry."
"But, my dear sir----"
"Don't 'dear sir' me. I know your kind. And don't try any tricks with
me."
Hartz raised his hands and waved them in indignation.
"What for it is that you insult me? If you think I want your case, you
bring in a policeman, and to him I shall eggsplain----"
"I don't need any cop to settle with you," flared Mushet. "I know why
you are keeping it. I'll fix you for that, you dirty little Yid."
And he picked up a counter weight and flung it at Hartz's head as he
left the shop.
He walked along the street biting his finger-nails and fuming
internally.
There is no doubt that Alfred Mushet was in an awkward predicament.
In the attaché-case was the necklace which the police were seeking
throughout London. How he had taken it was simple enough. He had been
in the pit of the theatre one night and had seen it on the neck of
Gladys Crieff, and he had made up his mind to steal it; and, by a
remarkable chance, he had gone to the flat at the very time that Gladys
Crieff was alone, waiting for the visit of Richard Caffyn. All this
came out afterwards, of course.
Mushet had watched the flat carefully. He had seen the maid go out on
her shopping expedition. He had seen Richard Caffyn go up to the flat,
and he had seen Caffyn leave. He followed at once, intending to make
his raid. He had a skeleton key with which to open the door, but he had
no need to use it. The door, as I have already mentioned, was open when
the maid returned from her second shopping expedition. Caffyn had left
it open, and Alfred Mushet had, between the departure of Caffyn and the
return of the maid, entered and secured the necklace.
He had seen the actress lying on the settee in front of the
sitting-room fire. But he had thought she was resting, and he did
not enter that room. He had found the necklace in the jewel-case on
the dressing-table in the bedroom. It was a case of a swift raid and
flight. I don't suppose it would have made any difference to him had he
known that the girl was dead.
But, once he had the necklace, he found that it was a difficult thing
to hide. The police were seeking it everywhere. No dealer would handle
it; no receiver would look at it until the hue and cry had died down.
From place to place Mushet had taken it with him until he had borrowed
enough money to take a run over to the Continent. But when he was
getting his passport and making his arrangements he could not always
carry the necklace in his possession, lest the police took it into
their heads to suspect him. For this reason he had placed the necklace,
inside the attaché-case, in the keeping of Hartz. He chose Hartz's
place because Hartz did a quite respectable business in the pawnbroking
line, and Mushet had pawned his watch and had asked Hartz to keep his
case until he called for it the next day or so.
It was a small shop in a mean thoroughfare. Above the door was the
one word, _Hartz_, in faded letters, and the three golden globes that
proclaimed the kind of business transacted. Mushet had never been
across the threshold until he entered to sell his watch and leave his
case. And now, having secured his passport, and with his ticket already
purchased, he was held up because Hartz pretended that he could not
find the case. It was a very annoying situation.
Alfred Mushet had reckoned to be in Paris that night, and the more he
thought over the situation the more he came to the conclusion that
Hartz was trying on a piece of bluff. The barefaced way that Hartz had
denied having received the case was exasperating. Mushet saw through
the whole thing. The old rascal had opened the case, had seen the
necklace, and had recognised it, and was either keeping it, or intended
to hand it over to the police for the sake of the reward that had been
offered for its recovery. Yes, Hartz was a wily one!
If Hartz had been a regular receiver of stolen property, Mushet would
have handled him differently than by merely threatening him; but
Hartz was not a receiver. He was a hard old man who loaned money and
bargained with all the cunning of his race. He had no friends locally.
He was available for business at any hour. It was said that he never
slept; he was always the same when his door bell rang. He was too mean,
the neighbours declared, to leave his shop on any pretext. If he ever
went to bed, he must have gone with his clothes on, for at every hour
he was ready to answer a summons without delay.
Mushet knew that Hartz had this reputation. He knew that Hartz was
sneered at, and derided, by those who borrowed from him or pawned
their goods with him--a sort of Ishmael in the wilderness of London.
Mushet had lodgings in the street from which he could see the shop; and
he ground his teeth as he marched along trying to find a plan by which
he could compel Hartz to disgorge the swag.
Now, Mushet was a clever man in his way. He had started life as a
chemist's assistant, having been given this chance by a friendly
chemist who took an interest in the welfare of needy boys. Mushet
had learned a great deal in the shop; but he had turned out a bad
speculation, for he had robbed his employer and had been sent to
prison. After that he no longer tried to redeem his lost character.
Prison had taught him one thing--the advantage of waiting and planning.
He was clever enough to see that if one acted on the spur of a moment
the results might be disastrous. It may have been that his life as a
chemist's assistant had taught him much in this way also, for he had
been sent to school where he had learned Latin, and had reached the
stage where he could dispense prescriptions. This requires care and
concentration.
The more he thought of Hartz the more he felt a terrible desire for
revenge. Hartz had taunted him with the suggestion that he could
fetch the police in order to "eggsplain" the situation. That taunt
rankled. It was very obvious, of course, that Mushet dared not fetch
a policeman. To prove that any case was his he would be compelled
to state the contents. To state the contents would send him to the
criminal dock.
He smiled grimly the more he considered the audaciously simple way by
which Hartz had drawn his prize from him; and when Alfred Mushet smiled
in that way there was cruelty in his expression--ice-cold ferocity as
relentless as it was deep.
Taking a bus to Hyde Park Corner, he entered the Park and sat down to
think it out. There was one point that troubled him. Was it possible
that Hartz had already handed over the attaché-case to the police? Was
Hartz in league with the police? Or was the case still in the shop? As
he sat in Hyde Park, there came to Alfred Mushet an idea whereby he
could find out this and also exact a nice revenge on Hartz.
It was late when he left Hyde Park and made his way to his lodgings.
He did not wait there long--just long enough to secure a pair of
rubber gloves, a new pair--for it was one of his that had been found
at the flat of Gladys Crieff--a few tools, three small phials, and
a flashlamp. Having put these into his pockets, he started out for
Hartz's shop.
It was quite dark, and the street was fairly quiet. To enter the shop
was an easy job for Alfred Mushet. He was used to taking risks, to
cutting out glass and sawing off locks. He did not require much energy
to get into the little pawnbroker's place. Everything seemed to be
in his favour. In the yard at the back of the shop there was a back
window to the premises. Mushet tore the catch off the rotten sash and
pushed the window up without noise. He stepped inside.
His first precaution was to pull down the blind. He was in the back
shop, and it looked like a lumber-room. The edge of a large safe peeped
out from a litter of old clothes, parcels, boots, all kinds of goods
thrown around. On the shelves were more articles, crammed together
without care or any semblance of order.
Between the front shop and the back was a narrow staircase, uncarpeted
and dusty. It was up there that Hartz lived; but Mushet did not intend
to disturb him. He was bent on other work. He was searching for the
attaché-case.
Into the front shop he stepped gingerly, his flashlamp shedding its ray
over the counter and the shelves. He searched everywhere--under the
counter, among the piles of goods on the shelves, behind the shelves.
He drew blank. The back room was still to explore. He returned to it,
and was on the point of stepping over a heap of goods on the floor
when a board creaked on the stair. Mushet stiffened suddenly and
extinguished his flashlamp.
Another board creaked. Someone was coming down the stairs. A glimmer
of light flickered from the narrow opening between the two rooms. Next
moment the figure of Hartz appeared.
He was clad in his shirt and trousers, and above his head he held a
candle. He looked the queerest figure imaginable as he stood on the
bottom step, clawing at his beard and peering about like a hawk,
startled and suspicious. His large round spectacles glinted as the
glass caught the light of the candle. He did not see Mushet, who had
drawn himself close to the wall behind the heap of goods; but Mushet
saw him, and acted at once.
He bounded forward and threw his arms round the man's neck, dragging
him to the ground and pressing his throat so that he could not utter a
sound. The candle dropped to the floor and the flame was extinguished.
Hartz's spectacles were knocked off in the attack, but he had a
resistance that surprised Mushet. It was the hysterical strength of an
old man.
Mushet held him down, nevertheless.
"Lie still," he commanded.
"My spectacles! My spectacles!" cried Hartz. "I cannot see."
"I don't want you to see," answered Mushet. "I knocked them off on
purpose."
"A burglar, is it?" gasped Hartz. "But you will find nothing! I am
poor. You are killing me."
Mushet released the pressure on Hartz and rose to his feet. He believed
he had frightened Hartz, but, as soon as his grip was loosened, the
latter threw his hands out and clutched Mushet by the shoulders.
"I know you! Your voice! You are the one who came for an attaché-case
and would not let me eggsplain. Help! Help! Robbers!"
It was the worst thing that Hartz could have done, but he was
frightfully afraid, and his nerves were all to pieces. Mushet gave
him no chance to repeat the cry for help. They fought it out in the
darkness.