JACK O' JUDGMENT REVEALED
A stoutish, grey-haired man descended from a third-class carriage at
Chatham Station and inquired of a porter the way to the dockyard. He
carried a lot of carpenter's tools in a straw bag and smoked a short
clay pipe. The porter looked at the man with his white, stubby beard
critically.
"Trying to get a job, mate?" he asked.
"Why, yes," said the man.
"How old might you be?" demanded the porter.
"Sixty-four," said the other, and the porter shook his head.
"You won't get work easy. They're not very keen on us old 'uns," he
said. "Why don't you try at Markham's, the builders in the High Street?
They're short of men. I saw a notice outside their yard only this
morning."
The workman thanked the porter, shouldered his basket and tramped down
the High Street. He was respectably dressed, and policemen on the
look-out for suspicious tramps did not give him a second glance. He
spent the greater part of the day walking from yard to yard, everywhere
receiving the same answer. Late in the afternoon he had better luck. A
small firm of ship repairers were in want of a jobbing carpenter and put
him to work at once.
It was many years since Colonel Boundary had wielded a saw, but he made
a good showing. After two hours' work, however, his back was aching and
his hands were sore. He was glad when the yard bell announced the hour
for knocking off. He had yet to find lodgings, but this did not worry
him. He was careful to avoid the cheaper kind of lodging-house, and went
to one which catered for the artisan, where he could get a room of his
own and a clean bed. He paid a deposit, washed himself and left his
tools, then went out in search of some refreshment.
At seven o'clock the next morning he was back at the yard. He thought
several times during the day that he would have to throw the work up.
His back ached furiously, his arms were like lead. But he persevered,
and again another day drew to a close. By the third day he had got his
muscles into play and found the work easy. He was asked by the foreman
if he would care to go into the country to work at a house that the head
of the firm was building, but he declined. He wanted to remain in the
town where there were crowds. At the end of the week came his great
chance. He had been sent down to the docks to do some repairs on a small
steamer and had pleased the skipper, who was himself an elderly man, by
the ability he had shown.
"You're worth twice as much as some of these darned young 'uns,"
grumbled the old man. "Are you married?"
"No," said the other.
"Got any kids?"
Boundary shook his head.
"Why don't you sign on with me?" asked the skipper. "I want a carpenter
bad."
"Where are you going?" asked Boundary, breathing more quickly.
"We're going to Valparaiso first, then we're going to work down the
coast, round the Horn to San Francisco and maybe we'll get a cargo
across to China."
"I'll think it over," said the colonel.
That night he called on the captain and told him that he had made up his
mind to go.
"Good!" said the skipper, "but you'll have to sign on to-night. I'm
leaving to-morrow by the first tide."
The colonel nodded, not daring to speak. Here was luck, the greatest in
the world. Nobody would suspect a carpenter, taken from a local firm and
shipped with the captain's goodwill. At seven o'clock the next morning
he was standing on the deck of the _Arabelle Sands_, watching the low
coast-line slipping past. The ship was to make one call at Falmouth and
two days later she reached that port. Boundary went ashore to buy some
wood and a few tools that he found he needed, and pulled back to the
ship in the afternoon. In the evening he accompanied the captain ashore.
"We shan't leave till to-morrow at twelve," said the captain. "You might
as well spend a night on solid earth whilst you can. It will be a long
time before you smell dirt again."
The captain's idea of a pleasant evening was to sit in the bar-parlour
of the Sun Inn and drink interminable hot rums. He had fixed up a room
for himself at the inn and offered Boundary a share, but the colonel
preferred to sleep alone. He secured lodgings in the town, and making an
excuse to the captain returned to his room early. He had purchased all
the newspapers he could find and he wanted to study them quietly. It was
with unusual relish that he read the account of an inquest on himself.
There was no breath of suspicion that he was not dead.
"Old Dan Boundary has tricked them all. Clever old Dan Boundary!"
He chuckled at the thought. He had deceived all those clever men at
Scotland Yard--Sir Stanley Belcom, Stafford King, Jack o' Judgment! Yes,
he had deceived Jack o' Judgment and that seemed the least believable
part of the affair. All the rest of the gang were captured or fugitives.
He wondered whether Lollie Marsh and Crewe had reached Portugal and what
they were doing there and how long their money would last and how they
would earn more. He had his own money well secured. He had managed to
get together quite a respectable sum, for there were other banks than
the Victoria and City--odd accounts in assumed names which he had drawn
upon on the very day of his supposed death.
There was a tap at the door.
"Come in," said Boundary, thinking it was the landlady.
He was in the middle of the room as he spoke, and he went back step by
step as the visitor entered. His tongue clave to the roof of his mouth,
his eyes were starting out of his head.
"You! You!" he croaked.
"Little Jack o' Judgment," said the mask mockingly. "Poor old Jack! Come
to take farewell of the colonel before he goes to foreign parts!"
"Stop!" cried Boundary hoarsely. "I know you, damn you! I know you!"
He pulled back the curtains and glared out of the window. There was no
need to ask any further questions. The house was surrounded. He swung
round again at his tormentor and faced the white mask in a blind fury of
rage.
"You're clever, aren't you?" he said. "Cleverer than all the police! But
you weren't clever enough to save your son from death!"
The masked figure reeled back.
"Ah, that's got you! Little Jack o' Judgment!" mocked the colonel.
"That's got you where it hurts you most, hasn't it? Your only son, too!
And he went to the devil all the faster because of me--me--me!" He
struck his breast with his clenched fist. "You can't bring him back to
life, can you? That's one I've got against you."
"No," said Jack o' Judgment in a low voice. "I cannot bring him back to
life, but I can destroy the man who destroyed him, who blighted his
young life, who taught him vicious practices, who sapped his vitality
with drugs----"
"That's a lie!" said the colonel. "Crewe picked him up at Monte Carlo,
when he was on his beam-ends."
"Who sent him to Monte Carlo?" asked the other. "Who was the gambler who
brought him down, and received the wreck he had made with the pretence
that he had never met him before? It was you, Boundary?"
The colonel nodded.
"I was a fool to deny it. I pretended to Crewe that I hadn't met him
before. Yes, it was I, and I glory in it. You think you're going to
pinch me, now, and put me where I belong--on the scaffold maybe. But you
can never wipe that memory out of your mind, that you had a son who died
in the gutter, that you're a childless old man who has no son to follow
you!"
"I can't wipe that out!" said Jack o' Judgment. "O, God! I can't wipe
that out!"
He raised his hand to his masked face as though to hide the picture
which Boundary conjured up.
"But I can wipe you out," he said fiercely, "and I've given my life, my
career, my reputation, all that I hold dear to get you! I've smashed
your schemes, I've ruined you, even if I've ruined myself. They're
waiting for you downstairs, Boundary. I told them to be here at this
very minute. Stafford King----"
"You'll never see me taken," said Boundary.
Two shots rang out together, and the colonel sprawled back over the
bed--dead.
Propped against the wall was Jack o' Judgment, and the hand that gripped
his breast dripped red. They heard the shots outside and Stafford King
was the first to enter the room. One glance at the colonel was
sufficient, and then he turned to the figure who had slipped to the
floor and was sitting with his back propped against the wall.
"Good God!" said Stafford. "Jack o' Judgment!"
"Poor old Jack!" said the mocking voice.
Stafford's arm was about his shoulder, and he laid the head gently back
upon his bent knee. He lifted the mask gently and the light of the oil
lamp which swung from the ceiling fell upon the white face.
"Sir Stanley Belcom! Sir Stanley!" he softly whispered.
Sir Stanley turned his head and opened his eyes. The old look of
good-humour shone.
"Poor old Jack o' Judgment!" he mimicked. "This is going to be a
first-class scandal, Stafford. For the sake of the service you ought to
hush it up."
"But nobody need know, sir," said Stafford. "You can explain to the
Home Secretary----"
Sir Stanley shook his head.
"I'm going to see a greater Home Secretary than ever lived in
Whitehall," he said slowly. "I'm finished, Stafford. Strip this mummery
from me, if you can."
With shaking hands Stafford King tore off the black cloak and flung it
under the bed.
"Now," said Sir Stanley weakly, "you can introduce me to the provincial
police as the head of our department and you can keep my secret,
Stafford--if you will."
Stafford laid his hand upon Sir Stanley's.
"I told my solicitor," Sir Stanley spoke with difficulty, "to give you a
letter in case--in case anything happened. I know I haven't played the
game by the department. I ought to have resigned years ago when I found
what had happened to my poor boy. I was Chief of Police in one of the
provinces of India at the time, but they wouldn't let me go. I came to
Scotland Yard and was promoted--no, I haven't played the game with the
department. And yet perhaps I have."
He did not speak for some time.
His breathing was growing fainter and fainter, and when Stafford asked
him, he said he was in no pain.
"I had to deceive you," he said after awhile. "I had to pretend that
Jack o' Judgment called on me too. That was to take suspicion from
your--Miss White," he smiled. "No, I haven't played the game. I stood
for the law, and yet--I broke that gang, which the law could not touch.
Yes, I broke them! I broke them!" he whispered. "If Boundary hadn't
known me I should have been gone before you came and resigned
to-morrow," he said, "but he must have discovered the boy's name. I
wonder he hadn't tried before. I smashed them, didn't I, Stafford? It
cost me thousands. I have committed almost every kind of crime--I
burgled the diamondsmiths', but you must give me your word you will
never tell. Phillopolis must suffer. They must all be punished."
Stafford had sent the police from the room, but the police-surgeon
would not be denied. He had the sense to see that nothing could be done
for the dying man, however, and that a change of position would probably
hasten the end. He, too, went and left them alone.
"Stafford, I have quite a lot of money," said the First Commissioner;
"it is yours. There's a will ... yours...."
Then he ceased to speak and Stafford thought that the end had come but
did not dare move in case he were mistaken. After five minutes the man
in his arms stirred slightly and his voice sounded strangely clear and
strong.
"Gregory, my boy, good old Gregory! Father's here, old man!"
His voice died away to a rumble and then to a murmur.
The tears were running down Stafford's face. He sensed all the tragedy,
all the loneliness of this man who had offered so cheerful a face to the
world. Then Sir Stanley struggled to draw himself to his feet, and
Stafford held him.
"Gently, sir, gently," he said, "you're only hurting yourself."
The dying man laughed. It was a little shrill chuckle of merriment and
Stafford's blood ran cold.
"Here I am, poor old Jack o' Judgment! Little old Jack o' Judgment! Give
me the lives you took and the hopes you've blasted. Give them to Jack
... Jack o' Judgment!"
They were his last words.
* * * * *
A year later First Commissioner Sir Stafford King received a letter from
South America. It contained nothing but the photograph of a very
good-looking man, and a singularly pretty woman, who held in her lap a
very tiny baby.
"Here is the last of the Boundary Gang," said Sir Stafford to Maisie.
"It is the one happy ending that has emerged from so much misery and
evil."
"Why, it is Lollie Marsh!"
"Lollie Crewe, I think her name is now," said Stafford. "It was queer
how Sir Stanley recognised the only human members of the gang."
"Then they got away after all?" said the girl. "I've often wondered what
happened at that aerodrome."
Stafford laughed.
"Oh, yes," he said drily, "they got away. They left at twenty minutes
past three, after a long argument with the aviator, a man named
Cartwright."
"How do you know?" she asked.
"Sir Stanley and I watched them go off," said Stafford.
He looked at the photograph again and shook his head.
"There were times when the Judgment of Jack was very merciful," he said
soberly.
THE END
_WARD, LOCK & CO.'S NEW FICTION_
Blindfolded
By
Dorothy Rogers
This novel has remarkable qualities. Its plot is strong and holds a
dramatic surprise of tragic intensity. The book tells the story of Anne
Gerrish, how she is stifled by the humdrum life at Norton with her
aunts, how she leaves them to wring from life a measure of individual
freedom and happiness, and how she finds both, only to end once more
where she began. To use a metaphor from music, her life is a piece
marked "Da capo." BLINDFOLDED is by far the best novel Miss Rogers has
yet written, a book full of truth and sincerity.
_Other Stories by this Author:_
If To-day be Sweet
The Standby
"A novel of considerable charm, dramatic interest, and admirable
character delineation."
_WARD, LOCK & CO.'S NEW FICTION_
X Esquire
By
Leslie Charteris
A new form of tobacco had been discovered and was being put on the
market by a syndicate consisting of rather dubious characters. The
campaign was to start with a free distribution of millions of packets of
cigarettes made from the new leaf. But the whole consignment of the
tobacco was burnt, and one by one the members of the projected syndicate
were assassinated by a mysterious person who called himself "X Esquire."
Who was he? And what was his purpose? Mr. Charteris shows himself in
this story to be one of the real brand of mystery novelists.
The Author can write a rattling good yarn, full of excitement and
real mystery. Thoroughly brisk in action, the story is told in a
virile and spirited manner.
_WARD, LOCK & CO.'S NEW FICTION_
The Tenant of Cromlech Cottage
By
Joseph Hocking
Ghost stories move almost inevitably to one of two dénouements--a
materialistic explanation or a supernatural. THE TENANT OF CROMLECH
COTTAGE has a surprise for the reader in that the physical explanation
of the noises and movements that have disturbed the novelist owner of
the haunted cottage--that these were occasioned by the nocturnal visits
of two orphans who believed that a will was hidden there--was followed
by the appearance of a dead man to tell the novelist where this missing
will might be found. This dualism is typical of Joseph Hocking's Cornish
stories where romance and realism make a blend as fascinating as it is
unique.
There are few better story-tellers than Mr. Joseph Hocking,
especially when he is dealing with his beloved Cornwall. His
stories are thrillingly interesting, and rivet the attention of the
reader from beginning to end.
_WARD, LOCK & CO.'S NEW FICTION_
The Knightsbridge Mystery
By
Carlton Dawe
The conclusion of this story has a real grip, and the solution of the
mystery concerning the death of the girl victim of an unknown hand is at
once original and instinct with a true human pathos. The character of
the detective who investigates the case is one of the triumphs of the
book, and he is no stereotyped member of the Criminal Investigation
Department but a living personality as well as a convincing police
officer. Mr. Carlton Dawe has written in THE KNIGHTSBRIDGE MYSTERY one
of his best and most sympathetic stories.
_Other recent successes by this Author:_
The Temptation of Selma
Desperate Love
A Tangled Marriage
Euryale in London
Stranger than Fiction
The Way of a Maid
Love the Conqueror
The Glare
The Forbidden Shrine
"For a certain crispness of dialogue, and deft arrangement of the
events of a good plot, Mr. Carlton Dawe has very few rivals."--_The
Yorkshire Post._