CHAPTER I_Three sevens

THREE SEVENS

_A Detective Story_

_By_

Perley Poore Sheehan

[Illustration]

NEW YORK

CHELSEA HOUSE

PUBLISHERS

Three Sevens

Printed in the U. S. A.

languages, including the Scandinavian.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I. “SOLITARY” 11

II. PROVIDENCE AIDING 21

III. HEADQUARTERS 29

IV. BY PROCESS OF LAW 38

V. “YOUR WORK!” 48

VI. JUST AND UNJUST 58

VII. THE PROMISE 63

VIII. IN SAN PEDRO 74

IX. OLD RAGS! 83

X. SANCHO 94

XI. LIVE FREIGHT 104

XII. THE SECOND VERSION 112

XIII. SHIP AND BEACON 117

XIV. AUNT KATHERINE 124

XV. QUARRY 131

XVI. MERE RUMORS 138

XVII. GATHERING STORM 148

XVIII. TOWARD SUNDOWN 156

XIX. THE LULL 164

XX. THE MAGNET 170

XXI. PARLEY 176

XXII. THE UNDERWORLD 184

XXIII. THE LETTER 191

XXIV. IN THE THROES 202

XXV. GHOSTS 213

XXVI. RIGHT AND LEFT 224

XXVII. TIGERS’ DEN 234

XXVIII. TWELVE 242

THREE SEVENS

CHAPTER I

“SOLITARY”

It mattered not at all to Craig that he had at least another ten

years of prison ahead of him, nor that at least another month of

this unexpired term would have to be passed here in the “cooler.”

He had already considered these facts through long hours, and had

found them as unproductive as stones. But the cat was a brand-new

fact. He stroked her fur. He tickled her under the chin. In a sort

of tremulous delight he wondered how she got here--where she came

from--who owned her.

At this last phase of his happy speculation it was as if his mind

gave a slight start of surprise. Did she come as a heritage, so to

speak, from Chi Slim?

Here in San Pedro Prison, the punishment cells were a row of

boiler-iron boxes, each of them approximately a five-foot hollow

cube--six of them in all, ranged along one side of a dark subcellar.

In each cell there was an iron door with two openings in it--one near

the top, through which the guard could flash his light, when he made

his rounds, and thus see what the inmate of the cell was doing; and

the other at the bottom, through which things could be pushed, such

as food and water pans, without the door being opened.

They took no chances with a prisoner, once he was in his cell. There

he stayed. The door wasn’t opened until his time was up, and then

there would be plenty of guards on hand to handle him--if he still

required it, which wasn’t likely. He could groan. He could claim that

he was sick. He could plead until he was hoarse. He could hammer on

it, as had occasionally happened, until he was a senseless pulp. That

door remained shut.

It did, that is, unless the inmate died. And that was what had

happened to Chi Slim. So they took Chi out and put Craig in.

“Welcome to our club!”

Craig knew all about it before he had been in the cell five minutes.

The other cells were occupied, all of them, and there was a waiting

list, whence the allusion to the club. The prisoners talked when the

guard was away. And they told Craig that he ought to feel honored.

He not only had the cell with the biggest rivets in the floor, thus

making it impossible either to sit down or lie down without torture,

but he was the successor to an aristocrat.

That was right, too. For Chi Slim, notwithstanding his youth, had

been one of the most famous crooks in the United States. And, more

than that, he had died untamed.

As Craig stroked the cat’s soft fur he wondered at the hidden side

of Chi Slim’s nature that had made it possible for him to tame the

creature, win its trust. For Chi Slim had been bad--all bad. He had

been a thief and a killer. He was never worse than when the odds were

against him. As in prison, for example, where, twice, he had maimed

his guards and made clean get-aways.

Chi had been famous as a jail breaker, scoffing at the trial judge on

the bench, mocking the wardens, shrieking vengeance at the guards who

mistreated him when they thought they had him safe, and then somehow

or other, getting away in spite of them all.

Of course he had never, or hardly ever, accomplished his get-aways

single-handed. Chi had been a man of many friends. It would have been

hard to find a prison in the United States where some friend of his

was not, or some friend of a friend equally ready to aid and abet

any plan Chi Slim might evolve, from the murder of the warden to the

bribery of a guard.

But San Pedro had got him and held him--right here in this same

boiler-iron box, from the day of his reception to this, his last and

cleanest get-away of all.

Craig meditated all this as he toyed with the cat, and prayed

fervently that she wouldn’t leave him. It wasn’t surprising that a

cat should have found her way into the dark subcellar. The place was

swarming with rats. And even the rats had been useful in giving the

inmates of the dark cells something to think about and talk about.

It was almost like work to get a rat into a cell and then to get it

out again. It was a guarantee against madness, anyway. But that a cat

should have picked out Chi Slim for a companion, that was surprising.

That the cat hadn’t visited the other cells Craig made sure. No, she

was Chi Slim’s cat. Chi had made blasphemous recommendations to the

other prisoners neither to touch the animal nor speak to her nor

attempt to feed her. His! His! And, finally, the feline had accepted

Chi’s proprietorship.

Why not? He himself was a man cat, as ever was. Later on, not much

later, Craig was to discover evidence that Chi Slim might have done

a little rat-catching on his own account. Like that, perhaps, had he

first come into pussy’s good graces.

But, first of all, there came that other discovery. Not a discovery;

a revelation!

It came just as a hiss here and there from the other cells warned the

six inmates of the “punishment block” that a guard was at hand. All

the time that Craig was hearing the stealthy grating of the key in

the outer lock, and the slight sibilance of hinges as the door of the

subcellar was opened, and the later sibilance as the guard approached

in his felt slippers, pausing before each iron cell to flash his

light into it, he sat there blinded by another sort and greater light.

The cat, by this time, was against his knees, stretched out

luxuriously on the iron floor that was torture to him, while

Craig continued to caress her and prayed that the guard wouldn’t

see--wouldn’t suspect.

He raised his face. The light that flashed in upon him was like a

bath of cold fire. It came so unexpectedly, although he had been

expecting it. He had longed for it a while back. But now he had

dreaded it and would have dreaded it even if it hadn’t blinded him.

“Father, have mercy,” he said piously.

It seemed as if the light were still there even after it was

gone, and after the guard himself was gone, locking the door of

the subcellar back of him and climbing up the stone stairs to the

guardroom at the top of the stairs.

For, as Craig was running his fingers gently over the cat’s neck he

had felt a roughness. A scar, perhaps; an unhealed wound. And he had

avoided the spot. But he had found a similar roughness back of the

animal’s ears.

Then he had gently investigated. That was strange. The cat was

wearing some sort of a collar.

It was right then that he got his revelation. It all came to him in

a flash. Prison will do that for men--turn them into half-wits or

develop them into quick and subtle thinkers. And in that flash he

understood why Chi Slim had tamed the cat, and let it be known, no

doubt, in certain other quarters of the prison that the cat visited

him, and thus might be used as a courier of sorts.

The cat was wearing a collar, all right. It was a collar of five fine

steel saws.

There was one good thing about this club of darkness to which Craig

had been elected against his will. Its membership included no stool

pigeons, no informers. And only six members in all. There would be no

saw work without their knowing it. Their ears were as nicely tuned to

the small noises of this living tomb in which they dwelt as were the

ears of the rats themselves. But this did not mean betrayal.

“Boys,” whispered Craig. “Is he gone?”

There was a longish silence, while the others listened.

“He’s gone,” said Jim Bartow, of No. 1 cell--which was nearest the

foot of the stairs. “I heard him close the door at the top.”

“Because,” said Craig, “I have something to tell you.”

And he did tell them.

“The saws came from Solly Wells,” whispered some one from the other

end of the cellar. “Solly’s in the hospital, expectin’ to croak. He

didn’t know Chi’d beat him to it.”

There was a riot of subdued excitement. All speech took place in

whispers, for there was no telling when some sneak of a guard might

not take the trouble to come down and listen at the keyhole, but it

was loud enough for the brethren of the lodge. Some of them lamented

that the saws had fallen into the hands of a greenhorn, but the

general temper was high.

“How’ll I use them?” Craig inquired.

It was Jim Bartow who instructed him. First of all, he was to take

his time. He wasn’t to get excited. Otherwise, he would be spoiling

those saws, one after the other, and nothing would be accomplished.

He could get one hand through the top hole in his door, couldn’t he?

Yes. Well, he could start sawing there.

“And oil it with your soup,” some one whispered.

“Yeh,” said Bartow, “and paint a sign board so as the guard won’t

overlook nothing! He’ll have to do the job cold and dry--and, at

that, this boiler iron ought to cut like cheese.”

Craig set to work. Overhead and all about, San Pedro Prison was a

factory. Like a factory it began its day, and that was signaled to

those who dwelt in the darkness of the punishment block by certain

signs and sounds. It was then that there came to them the muted

whirring of the engine room and, fainter yet, the rumbling tremor of

the westbound train. There were those among them with senses so fine

that they could tell whether the train had stopped or not, whether it

was going fast or slow. Then came the noon hour, with another shake

rather than a sound, which meant that the prison whistle blew. Then

night, with the finest tremor of all--that given off by the dynamos

of the lighting plant.

But through all these other periods of the dark dial that was their

only clock, came the intermittent visits of the guards--the whispered

tread of the felt shoes, the blinding flash that was the light they

hungered for and which could be so cruel.

There was one thing about this light ration served the men of the

punishment block--it was blinding more or less to the guard, as well.

He could peer well enough at the creature who cowered in the cell, or

stared and swore; but he wasn’t likely to see anything so fine and

small as that lengthening streak, no wider than a fine black thread,

that fell from a corner of the upper hole in the door of cell No. 3.

“You rat!” snarled Craig.

“I’ll see that you get a week extra for that,” said Copton, the guard.

It was because of Copton that Craig was in the dark cell. Copton, a

week ago, had almost crushed in Craig’s ribs for no special reason

other than that he was in a bad humor, and Craig had struck him. He

had whirled on him right out of the lockstep, lifted him with an

uppercut to the chin, and dropped him with a jab to the stomach. And

then Copton had done practice on Craig with his club.

But it wasn’t because of all this that Craig had called Copton a rat.

He had expected a lengthening of his sentence, and had needed it.

Now, just one day more--two days.

He was following Bartow’s advice. Slow work it was, and killing work.

So the beaver gnaws a tree. So one of the big prison rats would draw

water from a thick lead pipe. But, like beaver or rat--or a caged

badger scratching forever at a knot hole, so this evolved animal of

a man shoved forward his fine saw and drew it back again, shoved

it forward, drew it back again. Not like cheese this boiler iron,

certainly; but easy to cut, as such things go.

Whoever had furnished those saws to Solly Wells had not risked the

great chance on inferior goods. Otherwise, moreover, Solly would

never have sent them to Chi Slim. The saws were good saws.

Was the spirit of Chi Slim there directing Craig now? He often felt

that this was so, for queer fancies come to a man who works in the

dark. Half the time he felt that not only was Chi Slim’s ghost there,

but a whole regiment of other ghosts--the ghosts of those who had

preceded him in this cell, and in San Pedro generally. For Craig had

seen things since coming to San Pedro that made him sick--sick as he

hadn’t been even with the big sickness of his arrest, his trial, his

conviction.

It was this latter element of his experience that was with him all

the time, even when the ghosts were there--one might almost say

especially when the ghosts were there. For it was this that vibrated

in Craig’s mind, day and night:

Now that he knew about the horrors of San Pedro---- _Saw! Saw!_

Now that he knew there were some men here who ought to be free----

_Scrape! Scrape!_

Now that he knew that he himself, his immortal soul, had already

atoned its sin a thousand times over---- _Rasp! Rasp!_

His fingers were bleeding. His knees were lacerated. His muscles were

become but a part of some machine that was killing him. But none the

less, Craig had that vision of a bigger thing to sustain him--a wider

liberty, a greater joy, a more stupendous prize. For he had joined

the small number of the great.

Who were the great? They were the men who, like himself, had fallen

into the cruel, huge power that drives the world ahead, and who are

thus marked to pass on that power to others, as Napoleon did, as

Cæsar did, and Moses.

The saw he was using snapped close to his fingers, as if this

tempered steel itself were unable to stand the strain. It was the

third saw that had snapped like that, despite his infinite pains and

the profane recommendations of his brethren. But Craig didn’t worry.

Not greatly. He would have enough saws to see him through. He knew he

would. This was too great a thing to fail because of a mere saw or

two.

Else, why had he been sent to San Pedro, of all prisons, when there

was a man at the head of it by the name of Green? And this man Green,

whom he had scarcely seen, and who had scarcely looked at him, so

closely woven into the scheme of Providence thus far revealed,

didn’t know anything about it? Or, did Green know? It didn’t matter.

Providence was running this. It was Providence helping him to extend

that invisible cut--invisible to the dull-witted guards who came from

top hole to bottom; and when this work should be complete, could he

doubt but that Providence likewise would show him the way?

Not that Craig failed to receive much advice along these lines also

from his fellows of the dark lodge. They were all willing to help.

Jim Bartow, cell No. 1, volunteered to throw soup in the guard’s

face, thus creating a diversion until Craig could get him from behind.

Whitey, cell No. 2, had a stiletto made from a wire he had once

removed from the rim of a tin plate and had since managed, the Lord

knows how, to keep concealed through numerous searchings and changes

of raiment. He thought he could hold the guard’s attention better

than Bartow. Anyhow, Craig could have the weapon the moment he was

out of his cell.

In cell No. 4 was a half-wit who sang, all the time that he wasn’t

weeping; and in cell No. 5 was Bangor--a six-footer who had once

sailed his own trawler--eager to help, but reduced by a fever.

It was from cell No. 6, the last in the row, that Craig got most of

his counsel--got this by a word here and a word there, and in long

silences, as if the inmate of cell No. 6 were speaking to him in a

sort of vocal Morse. For the inmate of cell No. 6 was an elderly

yegg, or safeblower, named Eddie; and Eddie had spent most of his

long life in prisons, had talked a lot with chaplains and reformers,

had read many books, had become, in short, a philosopher and sage.

“A great opportunity,” said Eddie softly, when he was sure that all

except Craig and himself were asleep. “Oh, I do hope, sir, that you

will make the most of it. A chance to do good!”

This from Eddie who had blown safes, and shot at the citizens of

villages on dark nights, and was down here in the punishment cells

now for calling Warden Green bad names in the presence of visitors.

“_Saw! Saw!_” And Craig was almost through.