Mr. Briggerland, it seemed, had some other object in life than the
regeneration of the criminal classes. He was a sociologist--a loose
title which covers a great deal of inquisitive investigation into other
people's affairs. Moreover, he had published a book on the subject. His
name was on the title page and the book had been reviewed to his credit;
though in truth he did no more than suggest the title, the work in
question having been carried out by a writer on the subject who, for a
consideration, had allowed Mr. Briggerland to adopt the child of his
brain.
On a morning when pale yellow sunlight brightened his dining-room, Mr.
Briggerland put down his newspaper and looked across the table at his
daughter. He had a club in the East End of London and his manager had
telephoned that morning sending a somewhat unhappy report.
"Do you remember that man Talmot, my dear?" he asked.
She nodded, and looked up quickly.
"Yes, what about him?"
"He's in hospital," said Mr. Briggerland. "I fear that he and Hoggins
were engaged in some nefarious plan and that in making an attempt to
enter--as, of course, they had no right to enter--a block of flats in
Cavendish Place, poor Talmot slipped and fell from the fourth floor
window-sill, breaking his leg. Hoggins had to carry him to hospital."
The girl reached for bacon from the hot plate.
"He should have broken his neck," she said calmly. "I suppose now the
police are making tender inquiries?"
"No, no," Mr. Briggerland hastened to assure her. "Nobody knows anything
about it, not even the--er--fortunate occupant of the flat they were
evidently trying to burgle. I only learnt of it because the manager of
the club, who gets information of this character, thought I would be
interested."
"Anyway I'm glad they didn't succeed," said Jean after a while. "The
possibility of their trying rather worried me. The Hoggins type is such
a bungler that it was almost certain they would fail."
It was a curious fact that whilst her father made the most guarded
references to all their exploits and clothed them with garments of
euphemism, his daughter never attempted any such disguise. The
psychologist would find in Mr. Briggerland's reticence the embryo of a
once dominant rectitude, no trace of which remained in his daughter's
moral equipment.
"I have been trying to place this man Jaggs," she went on with a little
puzzled frown, "and he completely baffles me. He arrives every night in
a taxicab, sometimes from St. Pancras, sometimes from Euston, sometimes
from London Bridge Station."
"Do you think he is a detective?"
"I don't know," she said thoughtfully. "If he is, he has been imported
from the provinces. He is not a Scotland Yard man. He may, of course, be
an old police pensioner, and I have been trying to trace him from that
source."
"It should not be difficult to find out all about him," said Mr.
Briggerland easily. "A man with his afflictions should be pretty
well-known."
He looked at his watch.
"My appointment at Norwood is at eleven o'clock," he said. He made a
little grimace of disgust.
"Would you rather I went?" asked the girl.
Mr. Briggerland would much rather that she had undertaken the
disagreeable experience which lay before him, but he dare not confess as
much.
"You, my dear? Of course not! I would not allow you to have such an
experience. No, no, I don't mind it a bit."
Nevertheless, he tossed down two long glasses of brandy before he left.
His car set him down before the iron gates of a squat and ugly stucco
building, surrounded by high walls, and the uniformed attendant, having
examined his credentials, admitted him. He had to wait a little while
before a second attendant arrived to conduct him to the medical
superintendent, an elderly man who did not seem overwhelmed with joy at
the honour Mr. Briggerland was paying him.
"I'm sorry I shan't be able to show you round, Mr. Briggerland," he
said. "I have an engagement in town, but my assistant, Dr. Carew, will
conduct you over the asylum and give you all the information you
require. This, of course, as you know, is a private institution. I
should have thought you would have got more material for your book in
one of the big public asylums. The people who are sent to Norwood, you
know, are not the mild cases, and you will see some rather terrible
sights. You are prepared for that?"
Mr. Briggerland nodded. He was prepared to the extent of two full
noggins of brandy. Moreover, he was well aware that Norwood was the
asylum to which the more dangerous of lunatics were transferred.
Dr. Carew proved to be a young and enthusiastic alienist whose heart and
soul was in his work.
"I suppose you are prepared to see jumpy things," he said with a smile,
as he conducted Mr. Briggerland along a stone-vaulted corridor.
He opened a steel gate, the bars of which were encased with thick layers
of rubber, crossed a grassy plot (there were no stone-flagged paths at
Norwood) and entered one of the three buildings which constituted the
asylum proper.
It was a harrowing, heart-breaking, and to some extent, a disappointing
experience for Mr. Briggerland. True, his heart did not break, because
it was made of infrangible material, and his disappointment was
counter-balanced by a certain vague relief.
At the end of two hours' inspection they were standing out on the big
playing fields, watching the less violent of the patients wandering
aimlessly about. Except one, they were unattended by keepers, but in the
case of this one man, two stalwart uniformed men walked on either side
of him.
"Who is he?" asked Briggerland.
"That is rather a sad case," said the alienist cheerfully. He had
pointed out many "sad cases" in the same bright manner. "He's a doctor
and a genuine homicide. Luckily they detected him before he did any
mischief or he would have been in Broadmoor."
"Aren't you ever afraid of these men escaping?" asked Mr. Briggerland.
"You asked that before," said the doctor in surprise. "No. You see, an
insane asylum is not like a prison; to make a good get-away from prison
you have to have outside assistance. Nobody wants to help a lunatic
escape, otherwise it would be easier than getting out of prison, because
we have no patrols in the grounds, the wards can be opened from the
outside without a key and the night patrol who visits the wards every
half-hour has no time for any other observation. Would you like to talk
to Dr. Thun?"
Mr. Briggerland hesitated only for a second.
"Yes," he said huskily.
There was nothing in the appearance of the patient to suggest that he
was in any way dangerous. A fair, bearded man, with pale blue eyes, he
held out his hand impulsively to the visitor, and after a momentary
hesitation, Mr. Briggerland took it and found his hand in a grip like a
vice. The two attendants exchanged glances with the asylum doctor and
strolled off.
"I think you can talk to him without fear," said the doctor in a low
voice, not so low, however, that the patient did not hear it, for he
laughed.
"Without fear, favour or prejudice, eh? Yes, that was how they swore the
officers at my court martial."
"The doctor was the general who was responsible for the losses at
Caperetto," explained Dr. Carew. "That was where the Italians lost so
heavily."
Thun nodded.
"Of course, I was perfectly innocent," he explained to Briggerland
seriously, and taking the visitor's arm he strolled across the field,
the doctor and the two attendants following at a distance. Mr.
Briggerland breathed a little more quickly as he felt the strength of
the patient's biceps.
"My conviction," said Dr. Thun seriously, "was due to the fact that
women were sitting on the court martial, which is, of course, against
all regulations."
"Certainly," murmured Mr. Briggerland.
"Keeping me here," Thun went on, "is part of the plot of the Italian
government. Naturally, they do not wish me to get at my enemies, who I
have every reason to believe are in London."
Mr. Briggerland drew a long breath.
"They are in London," he said a little hoarsely. "I happen to know where
they are."
"Really?" said the other easily, and then a cloud passed over his face
and he shook his head.
"They are safe from my vengeance," he said a little sadly. "As long as
they keep me in this place pretending that I am mad, there is no
possible chance for me."
The visitor looked round and saw that the three men who were following
were out of ear shot.
"Suppose I came to-morrow night," he said, lowering his voice, "and
helped you to get away? What is your ward?"
"No. 6," said the other in the same tone. His eyes were blazing.
"Do you think you will remember?" asked Briggerland.
Thun nodded.
"You will come to-morrow night--No. 6, the first cubicle on the left,"
he whispered, "you will not fail me? If I thought you'd fail me----" His
eyes lit up again.
"I shall not fail you," said Mr. Briggerland hastily. "When the clock
strikes twelve you may expect me."
"You must be Marshal Foch," murmured Thun, and then with all a madman's
cunning, changed the conversation as the doctor and attendants, who had
noticed his excitement, drew nearer. "Believe me, Mr. Briggerland," he
went on airily, "the strategy of the Allies was at fault until I took up
the command of the army...."
Ten minutes later Mr. Briggerland was in his car driving homeward, a
little breathless, more than a little terrified at the unpleasant task
he had set himself; jubilant, too, at his amazing success.
Jean had said he might have to visit a dozen asylums before he found his
opportunity and the right man, and he had succeeded at the first
attempt. Yet--he shuddered at the picture he conjured--that climb over
the high wall (he had already located the ward, for he had followed the
General and the attendants and had seen him safely put away), the
midnight association with a madman....
He burst in upon Jean with his news.
"At the first attempt, my dear, what do you think of that?" His dark
face glowed with almost childish pride, and she looked at him with a
half-smile.
"I thought you would," she said quietly. "That's the rough work done, at
any rate."
"The rough work!" he said indignantly.
She nodded.
"Half the difficulty is going to be to cover up your visit to the
asylum, because this man is certain to mention your name, and it will
not all be dismissed as the imagination of a madman. Now I think I will
make my promised call upon Mrs. Meredith."