THE HYPNOTIC FIASCO
I
Whilst Professor Conti was building elaborate castles in the air,
Bindle with tense caution crept down the three flights of stairs that
led to the street.
Everything was quiet and dark. As he softly closed the outer door
behind him he heard a clock striking three. Swiftly he removed the
bandages that swathed his head, tucked them in his pockets and stepped
out briskly.
He wanted to think, but above all he wanted food and drink.
As a precaution against the attentions of the police he began to
whistle loudly. None, he argued, would suspect of being a burglar a
man who was whistling at the stretch of his power. Once he stopped
dead and laughed.
"Joe Bindle," he remarked, "you been burglin', and you're mesmerised,
an' you're goin' to give yerself up to the police, an' don't you forget
it, as it might 'urt the Professor's feelings."
He slapped his knee, laughed again, recommenced whistling, and
continued on his way.
Occasionally his hand would wander in the direction of the left-hand
pocket of his coat, when, feeling the Professor's watch and chain and
the note to the police, his face would irradiate joy.
He _must_ think, however. He could not continue walking and whistling
for ever. He must think; and with Bindle to think it was necessary
that he should remain still. This he dare not do for fear of arousing
suspicion.
Once in turning a corner suddenly he almost collided with a policeman.
"Tryin' to wake the whole place?" enquired the policeman. "Where are
you goin', makin' such a row about it?"
"To 'ell, same as you, ole sport," responded Bindle cheerfully.
"Goo'-night! See yer later!"
The policeman grumbled something and passed on. Presently Bindle saw
the lights of a coffee-stall, towards which he walked briskly. Over
two sausages and some bacon he reviewed the situation, chaffed the
proprietor, and treated to a meal the bedraggled remnants of what had
once been a woman, whom he found hovering hungrily about the stall.
When he eventually said "Good-mornin'" to his host and guest, he had
worked out his plan of campaign.
He walked in the direction of the police-station, having first resumed
his bandages. Day was beginning to break. Seeing a man approaching
him, he quickened his pace to a run. As he came within a few yards of
the man, who appeared to be of the labourer class, he slackened his
pace, then stopped abruptly.
"Where's the police-station, mate?" he enquired, panting as if with
great exertion.
"The police-station?" repeated the man curiously. "Straight up the
road, then third or fourth to the right, then----"
"Is it miles?" panted Bindle.
"'Bout quarter of a mile, not more. What's up, mate?" the man
enquired. "Been 'urt?"
"Quarter of a mile, and 'im bleedin' to death! I got to fetch a
doctor," Bindle continued. Then, as if with sudden inspiration, he
thrust Professor Conti's letter into the astonished man's hands.
"In the name of the law I order yer to take this letter to the
police-station. I'll go for a doctor. Quick--it's burglary and
murder! 'Ere's a bob for yer trouble."
With that, Bindle sped back the way he had come, praying that no
policeman might see him and give chase.
The workman stood looking stupidly from the letter and the shilling in
his hand to the retreating form of Bindle. After a moment's hesitation
he pocketed the coin, and with a grumble in his throat and the fear of
the Law in his heart, he turned and slowly made his way to the
police-station.
II
When Professor Conti awoke on the morning of the burglary, he was
horrified to find, from the medley of sounds without, produced by
hooters and bells, that it was half-past eight.
Jumping quickly out of bed, he shaved, washed, and dressed with great
expedition, and before nine was in a telephone call-box ringing up the
police. On learning that his note had been duly delivered, he smiled
his satisfaction into the telephone mouthpiece.
Fortunately he was known to the sergeant who answered him, having
recently given his services at an entertainment organised by the local
police. After some difficulty he arranged that the charge should be
taken through the telephone, although a most irregular proceeding.
"He's givin' us a lot of trouble, sir. Talks of having been given the
note, and about a burglary and attempted murder," volunteered the
sergeant.
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the Professor.
"Ha, ha, ha!" echoed the sergeant, and they rang off.
In spite of his laugh, the Professor was a little puzzled by the
sergeant's words. The man should still be under control. However, he
reasoned, the fellow was caught, and he had other and more important
things to occupy his mind. Hailing a passing taxi, he drove to the
offices of _The Evening Mail_. Sending up his card with the words
IMPORTANT NEWS written upon it, he gained immediate access to the
news-editor.
Within ten minutes the story of the hypnotised burglar was being
dictated by the editor himself to relays of shorthand writers. The
police had, on the telephone, confirmed the story of a man having given
himself up, and the whole adventure was, in the argot of Fleet Street,
"hot stuff."
By half-past eleven the papers were selling in the streets, and the
Professor was on his way to the police-court. He had been told the
case would not come on before twelve. As his taxi threaded its way
jerkily westward, he caught glimpses of the placards of the noon
edition of _The Evening Mail_, bearing such sensational lines as:
MESMERISM EXTRAORDINARY
AN AMAZING CAPTURE
ALLEGED BURGLAR HYPNOTISED
He smiled pleasantly as he pictured his reception that evening, as an
extra turn, at one of the big music-halls.
He fell to speculating as to how much he should demand, and to which
manager he should offer his services. "The Napoleon of Mesmerists,"
was the title he had decided to adopt. Again the Professor smiled
amiably as he thought of the column of description with headlines in
_The Evening Mail_. He had indeed achieved success.
III
The drowsy atmosphere of the West London Police Court oppressed even
the prisoners. They came, heard, and departed; protagonists for a few
minutes in a drama, then oblivion. The magistrate was cross, the clerk
husky, and the police anxiously deferential, for one of their number
had that morning been severely censured for being unable to
discriminate between the effects upon the human frame of laudanum and
whisky.
Nobody was interested--there was nothing in which to be interested--and
there was less oxygen than usual in the court, the magistrate had a
cold. It was a miserable business, this detection and punishing of
crime.
"Twenty shillings costs, seven days," snuffled the presiding genius.
A piece of human flotsam faced about and disappeared.
Another name was called. The sergeant in charge of the new case
cleared his throat. The magistrate lifted his handkerchief to his
nose, the clerk removed his spectacles to wipe them, when something
bounded into the dock, drawing up two other somethings behind it.
The magistrate paused, his handkerchief held to his nose, the clerk
dropped his spectacles, the three reporters became eagerly alert--in
short, the whole court awakened simultaneously from its apathy to the
knowledge that this was a dramatic moment.
In the dock stood a medium-sized man with nondescript features, a thin
black moustache, iron-grey hair, and dishevelled clothing. Each side
of him stood a constable gripping an arm--they were the somethings that
had followed him into the dock.
For a moment the prisoner, who seemed to radiate indignation, looked
about him, his breath coming in short, passionate sobs.
The clerk stooped to pick up his glasses, the magistrate blew his nose
violently to gain time, the reporters prepared to take notes. Then the
storm burst.
"You shall pay for this, all of you!" shouted the man in the dock,
jerking his head forward to emphasise his words, his arms being firmly
held straight to his sides. "Me a burglar--me?" he sobbed.
"Silence in the court!" droned the clerk, who, having found his
glasses, now began to read the charge-sheet, detailing how the prisoner
had burglariously entered No. 13 Audrey Mansions, Queen's Club, in the
early hours of that morning. He was accustomed and indifferent to
passionate protests from the dock.
The prisoner breathed heavily. The clerk was detailing how the
prisoner had awakened the occupant of the premises by lifting his gold
watch from the table beside the bed. At this juncture the prisoner
burst out again:
"It's a lie, it's a lie, an' you all know it! It's a plot!
I'm--I'm----" He became inarticulate, sobs of impotent rage shaking
his whole body, and the tears streaming down his face.
At that moment Professor Sylvanus Conti entered the court, smiling and
alert. He looked quickly towards the dock to see if his case had come
on, and was relieved to find that his last night's visitor was not
there. He had feared being late.
The magistrate cleared his throat and addressed the prisoner:
"You are harming your case by this exhibition. If a mistake has been
made you have nothing to fear; but if you continue these interruptions
I shall have to send you back to the cells whilst your case is heard."
Turning to the officer in charge of the case, he enquired:
"Is the prosecutor present?"
The sergeant looked round, and, seeing Professor Conti, replied that he
was.
"Let him be sworn," ordered the magistrate.
To his astonishment, Professor Conti heard his name called. Thoroughly
bewildered, he walked in the direction in which people seemed to expect
him to walk. He took the oath, with his eyes fixed, as if he were
fascinated, upon the pathetic figure in the dock. Suddenly he became
aware that the man was addressing him.
"Did I do it?--did I?" he asked brokenly.
"Silence in the court!" called the clerk.
Suddenly the full horror of the situation dawned upon the Professor.
He broke out into a cold sweat as he stood petrified in the
witness-box. Somehow or other his plan had miscarried. He looked
round him. Instinctively he thought of flight. He felt that he was
the culprit, the passionate, eager creature in the dock his accuser.
"Am I the man?" he heard the prisoner persisting. "Am I?"
"N-no," he faltered in a voice he could have sworn was not his own.
"You say that the prisoner is not the man who entered your flat during
the early hours of this morning?" questioned the magistrate.
"No, sir, he's not," replied Conti wearily, miserably. What had
happened? Was he a failure?
"Please explain what happened," ordered the magistrate.
Conti did so. He told how he had been awakened, and how he conceived
the idea of hypnotising the burglar and making him give himself up to
the police.
The prisoner was then sworn and related how he had been commanded in
the name of the law to deliver the note at the police-station; how he
had done so, and had been promptly arrested; how he had protested his
innocence, but without result.
The Professor listened to the story in amazement, and to the subsequent
remarks of the magistrate upon quack practices and police methods with
dull resignation.
He did not, however, realise the full horror of the catastrophe that
had befallen him until five minutes after leaving the court, when he
encountered a newsvendor displaying a placard of _The Evening Mail_
bearing the words:
PROFESSOR CONTI'S GREAT HYPNOTIC FEAT
CAPTURE OF AN ALLEGED BURGLAR
He then saw that he had lost his reputation, his belief in his own
powers, his living, and about fifty pounds' worth of property.
When he reached his flat late in the afternoon, he was astonished to
find awaiting him a small packet that had come by post, which contained
the whole of the missing property, even down to the small change, also
the two duplicate keys that Bindle had caused to be fashioned.
"I'm a bloomin' poor burglar," Bindle had assured himself cheerfully as
he dropped the parcel containing the proceeds of his "burglary" into a
pillar-box, "a-returnin' the swag by post. I got to be careful wot
sort o' little jokes I goes in for in future."
IV
That evening Joseph Bindle sat at home in his favourite chair reading
with great relish _The Evening Post's_ account of THE GREAT HYPNOTIC
FIASCO. Being at bitter enmity with _The Evening Mail_, the _Post_ had
given full rein to its sense of the ludicrous.
Puffing contentedly at a twopenny cigar, Bindle enjoyed to the full the
story so ably presented; but nothing gave him so much pleasure as the
magistrate's closing words. He read them for the fourth time:
"Professor Conti sought advertisement; he has got it. Unfortunately
for him, he met a man cleverer than himself, one who is something of a
humorist." Bindle smiled appreciatively. "The conduct of the police
in this case is reprehensible to a degree, and they owe it to the
public to bring the real culprit to justice."
With great deliberation Bindle removed his cigar from his mouth, placed
the forefinger of his right hand to the side of his nose, and winked.
"Seem to be pleased with yourself," commented Mrs. Bindle acidly, as
she banged a plate upon the table. To her, emphasis was the essence of
existence.
"You've 'it it, Mrs. B., I _am_ pleased wi' meself," Bindle replied.
He felt impervious to any negative influence.
"What's happened, may I ask?"
"A lot o' things 'ave 'appened, an' a lot of things will go on
'appenin' as long as your ole man can take an 'int. You're a wonderful
woman, Mrs. B., more wonderful than yer know; but yer must give 'em
some nasty jars in 'eaven now and then."
Bindle rose, produced from his pocket the tin of salmon that inevitably
accompanied any endeavour on his part to stand up to Mrs. Bindle, then
picking up a jug from the dresser he went out to fetch the supper beer,
striving at one and the same time to do justice to "Gospel Bells" and
his cigar.