I have already said in more than one place that Hewitt's personal
relations with the members of the London police force were of a cordial
character. In the course of his work it has frequently been Hewitt's hap
to learn of matters on which the police were glad of information, and
that information was always passed on at once; and so long as no
infringement of regulations or damage to public service were involved,
Hewitt could always rely on a return in kind.
It was with a message of a useful sort that Hewitt one day dropped into
Vine Street police-station and asked for a particular inspector, who was
not in. Hewitt sat and wrote a note, and by way of making conversation
said to the inspector on duty, "Anything very startling this way
to-day?"
"Nothing _very_ startling, perhaps, as yet," the inspector replied. "But
one of our chaps picked up rather an odd customer a little while ago.
Lunatic of some sort, I should think--in fact, I've sent for the doctor
to see him. He's a foreigner--a Frenchman, I believe. He seemed horribly
weak and faint; but the oddest thing occurred when one of the men,
thinking he might be hungry, brought in some bread. He went into fits of
terror at the sight of it, and wouldn't be pacified till they took it
away again."
"That was strange."
"Odd, wasn't it? And he _was_ hungry too. They brought him some more a
little while after, and he didn't funk it a bit,--pitched into it, in
fact, like anything, and ate it all with some cold beef. It's the way
with some lunatics--never the same five minutes together. He keeps
crying like a baby, and saying things we can't understand. As it
happens, there's nobody in just now who speaks French."
"I speak French," Hewitt replied. "Shall I try him?"
"Certainly, if you will. He's in the men's room below. They've been
making him as comfortable as possible by the fire until the doctor
comes. He's a long time. I expect he's got a case on."
Hewitt found his way to the large mess-room, where three or four
policemen in their shirt-sleeves were curiously regarding a young man of
very disordered appearance who sat on a chair by the fire. He was pale,
and exhibited marks of bruises on his face, while over one eye was a
scarcely healed cut. His figure was small and slight, his coat was torn,
and he sat with a certain indefinite air of shivering suffering. He
started and looked round apprehensively as Hewitt entered. Hewitt bowed
smilingly, wished him good-day, speaking in French, and asked him if he
spoke the language.
The man looked up with a dull expression, and after an effort or two, as
of one who stutters, burst out with, "_Je le nie!_"
"That's strange," Hewitt observed to the men. "I ask him if he speaks
French, and he says he denies it--speaking _in_ French."
"He's been saying that very often, sir," one of the men answered, "as
well as other things we can't make anything of."
Hewitt placed his hand kindly on the man's shoulder and asked his name.
The reply was for a little while an inarticulate gurgle, presently
merging into a meaningless medley of words and syllables--"_Qu'est ce
qu'_--_il n'a_--Leystar Squarr--_sacre nom_--not spik it--_quel
chemin_--sank you ver' mosh--_je le nie! je le nie!_" He paused, stared,
and then, as though realizing his helplessness, he burst into tears.
"He's been a-cryin' two or three times," said the man who had spoken
before. "He was a-cryin' when we found him."
Several more attempts Hewitt made to communicate with the man, but
though he seemed to comprehend what was meant, he replied with nothing
but meaningless gibber, and finally gave up the attempt, and, leaning
against the side of the fireplace, buried his head in the bend of his
arm.
Then the doctor arrived and made _his_ examination. While it was in
progress Hewitt took aside the policeman who had been speaking before
and questioned him further. He had himself found the Frenchman in a dull
back street by Golden Square, where the man was standing helpless and
trembling, apparently quite bewildered and very weak. He had brought him
in, without having been able to learn anything about him. One or two
shopkeepers in the street where he was found were asked, but knew
nothing of him--indeed, had never seen him before.
"But the curiousest thing," the policeman proceeded, "was in this 'ere
room, when I brought him a loaf to give him a bit of a snack, seein' he
looked so weak an' 'ungry. You'd 'a thought we was a-goin' to poison
'im. He fair screamed at the very sight o' the bread, an' he scrouged
hisself up in that corner an' put his hands in front of his face. I
couldn't make out what was up at first--didn't tumble to it's bein' the
bread he was frightened of, seein' as he looked like a man as 'ud be
frightened at anything else afore _that_. But the nearer I came with it
the more he yelled, so I took it away an' left it outside, an' then he
calmed down. An' s'elp me, when I cut some bits off that there very loaf
an' brought 'em in, with a bit o' beef, he just went for 'em like one
o'clock. _He_ wasn't frightened o' no bread then, you bet. Rum thing,
how the fancies takes 'em when they're a bit touched, ain't it? All one
way one minute, all the other the next."
"Yes, it is. By the way, have you another uncut loaf in the place?"
"Yes, sir. Half a dozen if you like."
"One will be enough. I am going over to speak to the doctor. Wait awhile
until he seems very quiet and fairly comfortable; then bring a loaf in
quietly and put it on the table, not far from his elbow. Don't attract
his attention to what you are doing."
The doctor stood looking thoughtfully down on the Frenchman, who, for
his part, stared gloomily, but tranquilly, at the fireplace. Hewitt
stepped quietly over to the doctor and, without disturbing the man by
the fire, said interrogatively, "Aphasia?"
The doctor tightened his lips, frowned, and nodded significantly.
"Motor," he murmured, just loudly enough for Hewitt to hear; "and
there's a general nervous break-down as well, I should say. By the way,
perhaps there's no agraphia. Have you tried him with pen and paper?"
Pen and paper were brought and set before the man. He was told, slowly
and distinctly, that he was among friends, whose only object was to
restore him to his proper health. Would he write his name and address,
and any other information he might care to give about himself, on the
paper before him?
The Frenchman took the pen and stared at the paper; then slowly, and
with much hesitation, he traced these marks:--
[Illustration]
The man paused after the last of these futile characters, and his pen
stabbed into the paper with a blot, as he dazedly regarded his work.
Then with a groan he dropped it, and his face sank again into the bend
of his arm.
The doctor took the paper and handed it to Hewitt. "Complete agraphia,
you see," he said. "He can't write a word. He begins to write 'Monsieur'
from sheer habit in beginning letters thus; but the word tails off into
a scrawl. Then his attempts become mere scribble, with just a trace of
some familiar word here and there--but quite meaningless all."
Although he had never before chanced to come across a case of aphasia
(happily a rare disease), Hewitt was acquainted with its general nature.
He knew that it might arise either from some physical injury to the
brain, or from a break-down consequent on some terrible nervous strain.
He knew that in the case of motor aphasia the sufferer, though fully
conscious of all that goes on about him, and though quite understanding
what is said to him is entirely powerless to put his own thoughts into
spoken words--has lost, in fact, the connection between words and their
spoken symbols. Also that in most bad cases agraphia--the loss of
ability to write words with any reference to their meaning--is commonly
an accompaniment.
"You will have him taken to the infirmary, I suppose?" Hewitt asked.
"Yes," the doctor replied. "I shall go and see about it at once."
The man looked up again as they spoke. The policeman had, in accordance
with Hewitt's request, placed a loaf of bread on the table near him, and
now as he looked up he caught sight of it. He started visibly and paled,
but gave no such signs of abject terror as the policeman had previously
observed. He appeared nervous and uneasy, however, and presently reached
stealthily toward the loaf. Hewitt continued to talk to the doctor,
while closely watching the Frenchman's behaviour from the corner of his
eye.
The loaf was what is called a "plain cottage," of solid and regular
shape. The man reached it and immediately turned it bottom up on the
table. Then he sank back in his chair with a more contented expression,
though his gaze was still directed toward the loaf. The policeman
grinned silently at this curious manoeuvre.
The doctor left, and Hewitt accompanied him to the door of the room. "He
will not be moved just yet, I take it?" Hewitt asked as they parted.
"It may take an hour or two," the doctor replied. "Are you anxious to
keep him here?"
"Not for long; but I think there's a curious inside to the case, and I
may perhaps learn something of it by a little watching. But I can't
spare very long."
At a sign from Hewitt the loaf was removed. Then Hewitt pulled the small
table closer to the Frenchman and pushed the pen and sheets of paper
toward him. The manoeuvre had its result. The man looked up and down
the room vacantly once or twice and then began to turn the papers over.
From that he went to dipping the pen in the inkpot, and presently he was
scribbling at random on the loose sheets. Hewitt affected to leave him
entirely alone, and seemed to be absorbed in a contemplation of a
photograph of a police-division brass band that hung on the wall, but he
saw every scratch the man made.
At first there was nothing but meaningless scrawls and attempted words.
Then rough sketches appeared, of a man's head, a chair or what not. On
the mantelpiece stood a small clock--apparently a sort of humble
presentation piece, the body of the clock being set in a horse-shoe
frame, with crossed whips behind it. After a time the Frenchman's eyes
fell on this, and he began a crude sketch of it. That he relinquished,
and went on with other random sketches and scribblings on the same piece
of paper, sketching and scribbling over the sketches in a
half-mechanical sort of way, as of one who trifles with a pen during a
brown study. Beginning at the top left-hand corner of the paper, he
travelled all round it till he arrived at the left-hand bottom corner.
Then dashing his pen hastily across his last sketch he dropped it, and
with a great shudder turned away again and hid his face by the
fireplace.
Hewitt turned at once and seized the papers on the table. He stuffed
them all into his coat-pocket, with the exception of the last which the
man had been engaged on, and this, a facsimile of which is subjoined, he
studied earnestly for several minutes.
Hewitt wished the men good-day, and made his way to the inspector.
"Well," the inspector said, "not much to be got out of him, is there?
The doctor will be sending for him presently."
[Illustration]
"I fancy," said Hewitt, "that this may turn out a very important case.
Possibly--quite possibly--I may not have guessed correctly, and so I
won't tell you anything of it till I know a little more. But what I want
now is a messenger. Can I send somebody at once in a cab to my friend
Brett at his chambers?"
"Certainly. I'll find somebody. Want to write a note?"
Hewitt wrote and despatched a note, which reached me in less than ten
minutes. Then he asked the inspector, "Have you searched the Frenchman?"
"Oh, yes. We went all over him, when we found he couldn't explain
himself, to see if we could trace his friends or his address. He didn't
seem to mind. But there wasn't a single thing in his pocket--not a
single thing, barring a rag of a pocket-handkerchief with no marking on
it."
"You noticed that somebody had stolen his watch, I suppose?"
"Well, he hadn't got one."
"But he had one of those little vertical button-holes in his waistcoat,
used to fasten a watchguard to, and it was much worn and frayed, so that
he must be in the habit of carrying a watch; and it is gone."
"Yes, and everything else too, eh? Looks like robbery. He's had a knock
or two in the face--notice that?"
"I saw the bruises and the cut, of course; and his collar has been
broken away, with the back button; somebody has taken him by the collar
or throat. Was he wearing a hat when he was found?"
"No."
"That would imply that he had only just left a house. What street was he
found in?"
"Henry Street--a little off Golden Square. Low street, you know."
"Did the constable notice a door open near by?"
The inspector shook his head. "Half the doors in the street are open,"
he said, "pretty nearly all day."
"Ah, then there's nothing in that. I don't think he lives there, by the
bye. I fancy he comes from more in the Seven Dials or Drury Lane
direction. Did you notice anything about the man that gave you a clue to
his occupation--or at any rate to his habits?"
"Can't say I did."
"Well, just take a look at the back of his coat before he goes
away--just over the loins. Good-day."
As I have said, Hewitt's messenger was quick. I happened to be
in--having lately returned from a latish lunch--when he arrived with
this note:--
"My dear B.,--I meant to have lunched with you to-day, but have
been kept. I expect you are idle this afternoon, and I have a
case that will interest you--perhaps be useful to you from a
journalistic point of view. If you care to see anything of it, cab
away _at once_ to Fitzroy Square, south side, where I'll meet you.
I will wait no later than 3.30. Yours, M. H."
I had scarce a quarter of an hour, so I seized my hat and left my
chambers at once. As it happened, my cab and Hewitt's burst into Fitzroy
Square from opposite sides almost at the same moment, so that we lost no
time.
"Come," said Hewitt, taking my arm and marching me off, "we are going to
look for some stabling. Try to feel as though you'd just set up a
brougham and had come out to look for a place to put it in. I fear we
may have to delude some person with that belief presently."
"Why--what do you want stables for? And why make me your excuse?"
"As to what I want the stables for--really I'm not altogether sure
myself. As to making you an excuse--well, even the humblest excuse is
better than none. But come, here are some stables. Not good enough,
though, even if any of them were empty. Come on."
We had stopped for an instant at the entrance to a small alley of rather
dirty stables, and Hewitt, paying apparently but small attention to the
stables themselves, had looked sharply about him with his gaze in the
air.
"I know this part of London pretty well," Hewitt observed, "and I can
only remember one other range of stabling near by; we must try that. As
a matter of fact, I'm coming here on little more than conjecture, though
I shall be surprised if there isn't something in it. Do you know
anything of aphasia?"
"I have heard of it, of course, though I can't say I remember ever
knowing a case."
"I've seen one to-day--very curious case. The man's a Frenchman,
discovered helpless in the street by a policeman. The only thing he can
say that has any meaning in it at all is '_je le nie_,' and that he says
mechanically, without in the least knowing what he is saying. And he
can't write. But he got sketching and scrawling various things on some
paper, and his scrawls--together with another thing or two--have given
me an idea. We're following it up now. When we are less busy, and in a
quiet place, I'll show you the sketches and explain things generally;
there's no time now, and I _may_ want your help for a bit, in which case
ignorance may prevent you spoiling things, you clumsy ruffian. Hullo!
here we are, I think!"
We had stopped at the end of another stable-yard, rather dirtier than
the first. The stables were sound but inelegant sheds, and one or two
appeared to be devoted to other purposes, having low chimneys, on one of
which an old basket was rakishly set by way of cowl. Beside the entrance
a worn-out old board was nailed, with the legend, "Stabling to Let," in
letters formerly white on a ground formerly black.
"Come," said Hewitt, "we'll explore."
We picked our way over the greasy cobble-stones and looked about us. On
the left was the wall enclosing certain back-yards, and on the right the
stables. Two doors in the middle of these were open, and a butcher's
young man, who with his shiny bullet head would have been known for a
butcher's young man anywhere, was wiping over the new-washed wheel of a
smart butcher's cart.
"Good-day," Hewitt said pleasantly to the young man. "I notice there's
some stabling to let here. Now, where should I inquire about it?"
"Jones, Whitfield Street," the young man answered, giving the wheel a
final spin. "But there's only one little place to let now, I think, and
it ain't very grand."
"Oh, which is that?"
"Next but one to the street there. A chap 'ad it for wood-choppin', but
'e chucked it. There ain't room for more'n a donkey an' a barrow."
"Ah, that's a pity. We're not particular, but want something big
enough, and we don't mind paying a fair price. Perhaps we might make an
arrangement with somebody here who has a stable?"
The young man shook his head.
"I shouldn't think so," he said doubtfully; "they're mostly shop-people
as wants all the room theirselves. My guv'nor couldn't do nothink, I
know. These 'ere two stables ain't scarcely enough for all 'e wants as
it is. Then there's Barkett the greengrocer 'ere next door. _That_ ain't
no good. Then, next to that, there's the little place as is to let, and
at the end there's Griffith's at the butter-shop."
"And those the other way?"
"Well, this 'ere first one's Curtis's, Euston Road--that's a
butter-shop, too, an' 'e 'as the next after that. The last one, up at
the end--I dunno quite whose that is. It ain't been long took, but I
b'lieve it's some foreign baker's. I ain't ever see anythink come out of
it, though; but there's a 'orse there, I know--I seen the feed took in."
Hewitt turned thoughtfully away.
"Thanks," he said. "I suppose we can't manage it, then. Good-day."
We walked to the street as the butcher's young man wheeled in his cart
and flung away his pail of water.
"Will you just hang about here, Brett," he asked, "while I hurry round
to the nearest iron-monger's? I shan't be gone long. We're going to work
a little burglary. Take note if anybody comes to that stable at the
farther end."
He hurried away and I waited. In a few moments the butcher's young man
shut his doors and went whistling down the street, and in a few moments
more Hewitt appeared.
"Come," he said, "there's nobody about now; we'll lose no time. I've
bought a pair of pliers and a few nails."
We re-entered the yard at the door of the last stable. Hewitt stooped
and examined the padlock. Taking a nail in his pliers he bent it
carefully against the brick wall. Then using the nail as a key, still
held by the pliers, and working the padlock gently in his left hand, in
an astonishingly few seconds he had released the hasp and taken off the
padlock. "I'm not altogether a bad burglar," he remarked. "Not so bad,
really."
The padlock fastened a bar which, when removed, allowed the door to be
opened. Opening it, Hewitt immediately seized a candle stuck in a bottle
which stood on a shelf, pulled me in, and closed the door behind us.
"We'll do this by candle-light," he said, as he struck a match. "If the
door were left open it would be seen from the street. Keep your ears
open in case anybody comes down the yard."
The part of the shed that we stood in was used as a coach-house, and was
occupied by a rather shabby tradesman's cart, the shafts of which rested
on the ground. From the stall adjoining came the sound of the shuffling
and trampling of an impatient horse.
We turned to the cart. On the name-board at the side were painted in
worn letters the words, "Schuyler, Baker." The address, which had been
below, was painted out.
Hewitt took out the pins and let down the tail board. Within the cart
was a new bed-mattress which covered the whole surface at the bottom. I
felt it, pressed it from the top, and saw that it was an ordinary spring
mattress--perhaps rather unusually soft in the springs. It seemed a
curious thing to keep in a baker's cart.
Hewitt, who had set the candle on a convenient shelf, plunged his arm
into the farthermost recesses of the cart and brought forth a very long
French loaf, and then another. Diving again he produced certain loaves
of the sort known as the "plain cottage "--two sets of four each, each
set baked together in a row. "Feel this bread," said Hewitt, and I felt
it. It was stale--almost as hard as wood.
Hewitt produced a large pocket-knife, and with what seemed to me to be
superfluous care and elaboration, cut into the top of one of the cottage
loaves. Then he inserted his fingers in the gap he had made and firmly
but slowly tore the hard bread into two pieces. He pulled away the crumb
from within till there was nothing left but a rather thick outer shell.
"No," he said, rather to himself than to me, "there's nothing in
_that_." He lifted one of the very long French loaves and measured it
against the interior of the cart. It had before been propped diagonally,
and now it was noticeable that it was just a shade longer than the
inside of the cart was wide. Jammed in, in fact, it held firmly. Hewitt
produced his knife again, and divided this long loaf in the centre;
there was nothing but bread in _that_. The horse in the stall fidgeted
more than ever.
"That horse hasn't been fed lately, I fancy," Hewitt said. "We'll give
the poor chap a bit of this hay in the corner."
"But," I said, "what about this bread? What did you expect to find in
it? I can't see what you're driving at."
"I'll tell you," Hewitt replied, "I'm driving after something I expect
to find, and close at hand here, too. How are your nerves to-day--pretty
steady? The thing may try them."
Before I could reply there was a sound of footsteps in the yard outside,
approaching. Hewitt lifted his finger instantly for silence and
whispered hurriedly, "There's only one. If he comes _here_, we grab
him."
The steps came nearer and stopped outside the door. There was a pause,
and then a slight drawing in of breath, as of a person suddenly
surprised. At that moment the door was slightly shifted ajar and an eye
peeped in.
"Catch him!" said Hewitt aloud, as we sprang to the door. "He mustn't
get away!"
I had been nearer the doorway, and was first through it. The stranger
ran down the yard at his best, but my legs were the longer, and half-way
to the street I caught him by the shoulder and swung him round. Like
lightning he whipped out a knife, and I flung in my left instantly on
the chance of flooring him. It barely checked him, however, and the
knife swung short of my chest by no more than two inches; but Hewitt had
him by the wrist and tripped him forward on his face. He struggled like
a wild beast, and Hewitt had to stand on his forearm and force up his
wrist till the bones were near breaking before he dropped his knife. But
throughout the struggle the man never shouted, called for help, nor,
indeed, made the slightest sound, and we on our part were equally
silent. It was quickly over, of course, for he was on his face, and we
were two. We dragged our prisoner into the stable and closed the door
behind us. So far as we had seen, nobody had witnessed the capture from
the street, though, of course, we had been too busy to be certain.
"There's a set of harness hanging over at the back," said Hewitt; "I
think we'll tie him up with the traces and reins--nothing like leather.
We don't need a gag; I know he won't shout."
While I got the straps Hewitt held the prisoner by a peculiar
neck-and-wrist grip that forbade him to move except at the peril of a
snapped arm. He had probably never been a person of pleasant aspect,
being short, strongly and squatly built, large and ugly of feature, and
wild and dirty of hair and beard. And now, his face flushed with
struggling and smeared with mud from the stable-yard, his nose bleeding
and his forehead exhibiting a growing bump, he looked particularly
repellent. We strapped his elbows together behind, and as he sullenly
ignored a demand for the contents of his pockets Hewitt unceremoniously
turned them out. Helpless as he was, the man struggled to prevent this,
though, of course, ineffectually. There were papers, tobacco, a bunch of
keys, and various odds and ends. Hewitt was glancing hastily at the
papers when, suddenly dropping them, he caught the prisoner by the
shoulder and pulled him away from a partly-consumed hay-truss which
stood in a corner, and toward which he had quietly sidled.
"Keep him still," said Hewitt; "we haven't examined this place yet." And
he commenced to pull away the hay from the corner.
Presently a large piece of sackcloth was revealed, and this being lifted
left visible below it another batch of loaves of the same sort as we had
seen in the cart. There were a dozen of them in one square batch, and
the only thing about them that differed them from those in the cart was
their position, for the batch lay bottom side up.
"That's enough, I think," Hewitt said. "Don't touch them, for Heaven's
sake!" He picked up the papers he had dropped. "That has saved us a
little search," he continued. "See here, Brett; I was in the act of
telling you my suspicions when this little affair interrupted me. If you
care to look at one or two of these letters you'll see what I should
have told you. It's Anarchism and bombs, of course. I'm about as certain
as I can be that there's a reversible dynamite bomb inside each of those
innocent loaves, though I assure you I don't mean meddling with them
now. But see here. Will you go and bring in a four-wheeler? Bring it
right down the yard. There's more to do, and we mustn't attract
attention."
I hurried away and found the cab. The meaning of the loaves, the cart,
and the spring-mattress was now plain. There was an Anarchist plot to
carry out a number of explosions probably simultaneously, in different
parts of the city. I had, of course, heard much of the terrible
"reversing" bombs--those bombs which, containing a tube of acid plugged
by wadding, required no fuse, and only needed to be inverted to be set
going to explode in a few minutes. The loaves containing these bombs
would form an effectual "blind," and they were to be distributed,
probably in broad daylight, in the most natural manner possible, in a
baker's cart. A man would be waiting near the scene of each contemplated
explosion. He would be given a loaf taken from the inverted batch. He
would take it--perhaps wrapped in paper, but still inverted, and
apparently the most innocent object possible--to the spot selected,
deposit it, right side up--which would reverse the inner tube and set up
the action--in some quiet corner, behind a door or what not, and make
his own escape, while the explosion tore down walls and--if the
experiment were lucky--scattered the flesh and bones of unsuspecting
people.
The infernal loaves were made and kept reversed, to begin with, in order
to stand more firmly, and--if observed--more naturally, when turned
over to explode. Even if a child picked up the loaf and carried it off,
that child at least would be blown to atoms, which at any rate would
have been something for the conspirators to congratulate themselves
upon. The spring-mattress, of course, was to ease the jolting to the
bombs, and obviate any random jerking loose of the acid, which might
have had the deplorable result of sacrificing the valuable life of the
conspirator who drove the cart. The other loaves, too, with no explosive
contents, had their use. The two long ones, which fitted across the
inside of the cart, would be jammed across so as to hold the bombs in
the centre, and the others would be used to pack the batch on the other
sides and prevent any dangerous slipping about. The thing seemed pretty
plain, except that as yet I had no idea of how Hewitt learned anything
of the business.
I brought the four-wheeler up to the door of the stable and we thrust
the man into it, and Hewitt locked the stable door with its proper key.
Then we drove off to Tottenham Court Road police-station, and, by
Hewitt's order, straight into the yard.
In less than ten minutes from our departure from the stable our prisoner
was finally secured, and Hewitt was deep in consultation with police
officials. Messengers were sent and telegrams despatched, and presently
Hewitt came to me with information.
"The name of the helpless Frenchman the police found this morning," he
said, "appears to be Gerard--at least I am almost certain of it. Among
the papers found on the prisoner--whose full name doesn't appear, but
who seems to be spoken of as Luigi (he is Italian)--among the papers, I
say, is a sort of notice convening a meeting for this evening to decide
as to the 'final punishment' to be awarded the 'traitor Gerard, now in
charge of comrade Pingard.'
"The place of meeting is not mentioned, but it seems more than probable
that it will be at the Bakunin Club, not five minutes' walk from this
place. The police have all these places under quiet observation, of
course, and that is the club at which apparently important Anarchist
meetings have been held lately. It is the only club that has never been
raided as yet, and, it would seem, the only one they would feel at all
safe in using for anything important.
"Moreover, Luigi just now simply declined to open his mouth when asked
where the meeting was to be, and said nothing when the names of several
other places were suggested, but suddenly found his tongue at the
mention of the Bakunin Club, and denied vehemently that the meeting was
to be there--it was the only thing he uttered. So that it seems pretty
safe to assume that it _is_ to be there. Now, of course, the matter's
very serious. Men have been despatched to take charge of the stable very
quietly, and the club is to be taken possession of at once--also very
quietly. It must be done without a moment's delay, and as there is a
chance that the only detective officers within reach at the moment may
be known by sight, I have undertaken to get in first. Perhaps you'll
come? We may have to take the door with a rush."
Of course I meant to miss nothing if I could help it, and said so.
"Very well," replied Hewitt, "we'll get ourselves up a bit." He began
taking off his collar and tie. "It is getting dusk," he proceeded, "and
we shan't want old clothes to make ourselves look sufficiently shabby.
We're both wearing bowler hats, which is lucky. Make a dent in yours--if
you can do so without permanently damaging it."
We got rid of our collars and made chokers of our ties. We turned our
coat-collars up at one side only, and then, with dented hats worn
raffishly, and our hands in our pockets, we looked disreputable enough
for all practical purposes in twilight. A cordon of plain-clothes police
had already been forming round the club, we were told, and so we sallied
forth. We turned into Windmill Street, crossed Whitfield Street, and in
a turning or two we came to the Bakunin Club. I could see no sign of
anything like a ring of policemen, and said so. Hewitt chuckled. "Of
course not," he said; "they don't go about a job of this sort with drums
beating and flags flying. But they are all there, and some are watching
us. There is the house. I'll negotiate."
The house was one of the very shabby _passe_ sort that abound in that
quarter. The very narrow area was railed over, and almost choked with
rubbish. Visible above it were three floors, the lowest indicated by the
door and one window, and the other two by two windows each--mean and
dirty all. A faint light appeared in the top floor, and another from
somewhere behind the refuse-heaped area. Everywhere else was in
darkness. Hewitt looked intently into the area, but it was impossible to
discern anything behind the sole grimy patch of window that was visible.
Then we stepped lightly up the three or four steps to the door and rang
the bell.
We could hear slippered feet mounting a stair and approaching. A latch
was shifted, a door opened six inches, an indistinct face appeared, and
a female voice asked, "_Qui est la?_"
"_Deux camarades_," Hewitt grunted testily. "_Ouvrez vite._"
I had noticed that the door was kept from opening further by a short
chain. This chain the woman unhooked from the door, but still kept the
latter merely ajar, as though intending to assure herself still
further. But Hewitt immediately pushed the door back, planted his foot
against it, and entered, asking carelessly as he did so, "_Ou se trouve
Luigi?_"
I followed on his heels, and in the dark could just distinguish that
Hewitt pushed the woman instantly against the wall and clapped his hand
to her mouth. At the same moment a file of quiet men were suddenly
visible ascending the steps at my heels. They were the police.
The door was closed behind us almost noiselessly, and a match was
struck. Two men stood at the bottom of the stairs, and the others
searched the house. Only two men were found--both in a top room. They
were secured and brought down.
The woman was now ungagged, and she used her tongue at a great rate. One
of the men was a small, meek-looking slip of a fellow, and he appeared
to be the woman's husband. "Eh, messieurs le police," she exclaimed
vehemently, "it ees not of 'im, mon pauvre Pierre, zat you sall rrun in.
'Im and me--we are not of the clob--we work only--we housekeep."
Hewitt whispered to an officer, and the two men were taken below. Then
Hewitt spoke to the woman, whose protests had not ceased. "You say you
are not of the club," he said, "but what is there to prove that? If you
are but housekeepers, as you say, you have nothing to fear. But you can
only prove it by giving the police information. For instance, now, about
Gerard. What have they done with him?"
"Jean Pingard--'im you 'ave take downstairs--'e 'ave lose 'im. Jean
Pingard get last night all a-boosa--all dronk like zis"--she rolled her
head and shoulders to express intoxication--"and he sleep too much
to-day, when Emile go out, and Gerard, he go too, and nobody know. I
will tell you anysing. We are not of the clob--we housekeep, me and
Pierre."
"But what did they do to Gerard before he went away?"
The woman was ready and anxious to tell anything. Gerard had been
selected to do something--what it was exactly she did not know, but
there was a horse and cart, and he was to drive it. Where the horse and
cart was also she did not know, but Gerard had driven a cart before in
his work for a baker, and he was to drive one in connection with some
scheme among the members of the club. But _le pauvre Gerard_ at the last
minute disliked to drive the cart; he had fear. He did not say he had
fear, but he prepared a letter--a letter that was not signed. The letter
was to be sent to the police, and it told them the whereabouts of the
horse and cart, so that the police might seize these things, and then
there would be nothing for Gerard, who had fear, to do in the way of
driving. No, he did not betray the names of the comrades, but he told
the place of the horse and the cart.
Nevertheless, the letter was never sent. There was suspicion, and the
letter was found in a pocket and read. Then there was a meeting, and
Gerard was confronted with his letter. He could say nothing but "_Je le
nie!_"--found no explanation but that. There was much noise, and she had
observed from a staircase, from which one might see through a
ventilating hole, Gerard had much fear--very much fear. His face was
white, and it moved; he prayed for mercy, and they talked of killing
him. It was discussed how he should be killed, and the poor Gerard was
more terrified. He was made to take off his collar, and a razor was
drawn across his throat, though without cutting him, till he fainted.
Then water was flung over him, and he was struck in the face till he
revived. He again repeated, "_Je le nie! je le nie!_" and nothing more.
Then one struck him with a bottle, and another with a stick; the point
of a knife was put against his throat and held there, but this time he
did not faint, but cried softly, as a man who is drunk, "_Je le nie! je
le nie!_" So they tied a handkerchief about his neck, and twisted it
till his face grew purple and black, and his eyes were round and
terrible, and then they struck his face, and he fainted again. But they
took away the handkerchief, having fear that they could not easily get
rid of the body if he were killed, for there was no preparation. So they
decided to meet again and discuss when there would be preparation.
Wherefore they took him away to the rooms of Jean Pingard--of Jean and
Emile Pingard--in Henry Street, Golden Square. But Emile Pingard had
gone out, and Jean was drunk and slept, and they lost him. Jean Pingard
was he downstairs--the taller of the two; the other was but _le pauvre
Pierre_, who, with herself, was not of the club. They worked only; they
were the keepers of the house. There was nothing for which they should
be arrested, and she would give the police any information they might
ask.
"As I thought, you see," Hewitt said to me, "the man's nerves have
broken down under the terror and the strain, and aphasia is the result.
I think I told you that the only articulate thing he could say was '_Je
le nie!_' and now we know how those words were impressed on him till he
now pronounces them mechanically, with no idea of their meaning. Come,
we can do no more here now. But wait a moment."
There were footsteps outside. The light was removed, and a policeman
went to the door and opened it as soon as the bell rang. Three men
stepped in one after another, and the door was immediately shut behind
them--they were prisoners.
We left quietly, and although we, of course, expected it, it was not
till the next morning that we learned absolutely that the largest arrest
of Anarchists ever made in this country was made at the Bakunin Club
that night. Each man as he came was admitted--and collared.
* * * * *
We made our way to Luzatti's, and it was over our dinner that Hewitt put
me in full possession of the earlier facts of this case, which I have
set down as impersonal narrative in their proper place at the beginning.
"But," I said, "what of that aimless scribble you spoke of that Gerard
made in the police station? Can I see it?"
Hewitt turned to where his coat hung behind him and took a handful of
papers from his pocket.
"Most of these," he said, "mean nothing at all. _That_ is what he wrote
at first," and he handed me the first of the two papers which were
presented in facsimile in the earlier part of this narrative.
"You see," he said, "he has begun mechanically from long use to write
'monsieur'--the usual beginning of a letter. But he scarcely makes three
letters before tailing off into sheer scribble. He tries again and
again, and although once there is something very like 'que,' and once
something like a word preceded by a negative 'n,' the whole thing is
meaningless.
"This" (he handed me the other paper which has been printed in
facsimile) "_does_ mean something, though Gerard never intended it. Can
you spot the meaning? Really, I think it's pretty plain--especially now
that you know as much as I about the day's adventures. The thing at the
top left-hand corner, I may tell you, Gerard intended for a sketch of a
clock on the mantelpiece in the police-station."
I stared hard at the paper, but could make nothing whatever of it. "I
only see the horse-shoe clock," I said, "and a sort of second,
unsuccessful attempt to draw it again. Then there is a horse-shoe
dotted, but scribbled over, and then a sort of kite or balloon on a
string, a Highlander, and--well, I don't understand it, I confess. Tell
me."
"I'll explain what I learned from that," Hewitt said, "and also what led
me to look for it. From what the inspector told me, I judged the man to
be in a very curious state, and I took a fancy to see him. Most I was
curious to know why he should have a terror of bread at one moment and
eat it ravenously at another. When I saw him I felt pretty sure that he
was not mad, in the common sense of the term. As far as I could judge
it seemed to be a case of aphasia.
"Then when the doctor came I had a chat (as I have already told you)
with the policeman who found the man. He told me about the incident of
the bread with rather more detail than I had had from the inspector.
Thus it was plain that the man was terrified at the bread only when it
was in the form of a loaf, and ate it eagerly when it was cut into
pieces. That was _one_ thing to bear in mind. He was not afraid of
_bread_, but only of a _loaf_.
"Very well. I asked the policeman to find another uncut loaf, and to put
it near the man when his attention was diverted. Meantime the doctor
reported that my suspicion as to aphasia was right. The man grew more
comfortable, and was assured that he was among friends and had nothing
to fear, so that when at length he found the loaf near his elbow he was
not so violently terrified, only very uneasy. I watched him and saw him
turn it bottom up--a very curious thing to do; he immediately became
less uneasy--the turning over of the loaf seemed to have set his mind at
rest in some way. This was more curious still. I thought for some little
while before accepting the bomb theory as the most probable.
"The doctor left, and I determined to give the man another chance with
pen and paper. I felt pretty certain that if he were allowed to
scribble and sketch as he pleased, sooner or later he would do something
that would give me some sort of a hint. I left him entirely alone and
let him do as he pleased, but I watched.
"After all the futile scribble which you have seen, he began to sketch,
first a man's head, then a chair--just what he might happen to see in
the room. Presently he took to the piece of paper you have before you.
He observed that clock and began to sketch it, then went on to other
things, such as you see, scribbling idly over most of them when
finished. When he had made the last of the sketches he made a hasty
scrawl of his pen over it and broke down. It had brought his terror to
his mind again somehow.
"I seized the paper and examined it closely. Now just see. Ignore the
clock, which was merely a sketch of a thing before him, and look at the
three things following. What are they? A horse-shoe, a captive balloon,
and a Highlander. Now, can't you think of something those three things
in that order suggest?"