_Only Seven_
WERE HANGED
by
Stuart Martin
_Author of
"The Fifteen Cells," etc._
HARPER & BROTHERS _Publishers_
New York and London
1929
ONLY SEVEN WERE HANGED
COPYRIGHT, 1929, BY STUART MARTIN
PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.
G-D
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
BABE JARDINE
THE SURF QUEEN
PIRATES OF THE MAIN
INHERITANCE
THE FIFTEEN CELLS
----------
THE MYSTERY OF MORMONISM
THE SECRET OF LOURDES
CONTENTS
I. THE CLUE CLUB DEBATES MURDER
II. THE JUDGE STATES HIS FIRST CASE
III. THE WAITER STATES HIS FIRST CASE
IV. THE JUDGE STATES HIS SECOND CASE
V. THE WAITER STATES HIS SECOND CASE
VI. THE JUDGE STATES HIS THIRD CASE
VII. THE WAITER STATES HIS THIRD CASE
VIII. THE JUDGE STATES HIS FOURTH CASE
IX. THE WAITER STATES HIS FOURTH CASE
X. THE JUDGMENT
XI. LEX TALIONIS
ONLY SEVEN WERE HANGED
CHAPTER I
_The Clue Club Debates Murder_
The chairman of the Clue Club called for silence.
The repeated tap of his wand of office on the polished table stilled
the tongues of the members and caused every eye to be focused on the
heavy figure who presided.
It was not a large club, barely twenty names being on the
subscription list; but it was a very exclusive one. This, their
monthly meeting, had fallen on Christmas Eve and the proceedings were
entirely formal. The dinner had been consumed and the dishes cleared
off; only a few details had to be carried through, and the remainder
of the evening was to be spent in seasonable cheerfulness.
Snow was falling in a thin whiffling way on the streets outside. The
ground was hard with frost.
All was cozy indoors. A big fire crackled in the grate. A shaded
cluster of electric globes hanging from the center of the ceiling and
suspended above the long table thrust a wide circle of brilliant
light toward the floor. Beyond this radius the room was in pleasant
twilight.
Apart from the members very few people were aware that such a club
existed. It had been born of the subtle fascination crime has always
had for human beings but has only recently been frankly admitted.
Wherever men live to govern, or be governed, they have formed clubs.
But in a clubland that has become bewildering the Clue Club
maintained an originality that was remarkable because of its
simplicity. To become a member one had to affect an interest in
crime and clues.
Such singleness of qualification and purpose was something of an
ironical gesture toward the political clubs where politics were
rarely mentioned, the professional clubs where there were no
professions, the social clubs where everyone was unsociable, the
sectarian and non-sectarian clubs where sect treason and dogmatic
cliques, respectively, reigned.
The members of the Clue Club were convinced that their directness of
objective--for all original ideas are copied--was responsible for the
Club of Honest Men in Chicago, the Truth-in-Advertising slogan, the
British Premier's inspired belief--after he had read the speeches of
his Cabinet members--in the many-sidedness of sincerity, the
international plan to outlaw war, and the simplicity of Einstein's
theory of relativity.
The members of the Clue Club were definitely interested in clues and
crime. Their interest might be legal, pathological, sociological,
professional, even casual, but it existed in every case. Yet,
strangely enough, no official or other detective was a member. No
murderer, no convict, ever told his experiences of prison or voiced
his estimate of the law. The object of the club was simply to talk
about crime--which, of course, involved talk about criminals--to
analyze it, to classify its manifestations, to examine clues revealed
by prosecutions, to suggest clues (within the privacy of the club
premises) in cases where no clues existed, and to explain, if
possible, the origin and phenomena of crime in the abstract and in
the particular.
The members were chiefly professional men--that is, outside the
criminal profession--from both sides of the Atlantic who could
compare crime as America and England knew it. This comparison, let
it be admitted, revealed a striking similarity in the objects of
criminals; but it also revealed an adroitness and, in many cases, a
resurprise, on the part of the American criminal which his English
brother lacked. Yet this was proved, after analysis, to be no real
cause for congratulation of one another by American evildoers, for
the majority of their most brilliant criminals were British born, and
Britain was willing to erase their names from her census, while Ellis
Island had not woven a net fine enough to prevent their penetration
into the United States. The members of the Clue Club, therefore,
with sound common sense, came to the conclusion that crime was
international in its nature, though it might acquire characteristics
from its environment. This conclusion was a sort of compromise that
avoided rivalries for notoriety.
It has been said that the club membership was mainly composed of
professional men. There were lawyers, actors, artists, doctors,
surgeons, psychologists, politicians, novelists. There was one
clergyman. Each looked at crime from his own viewpoint. They went
to criminal trials of national and international interest; they
haunted the courts during the hearing of murder cases. All were,
humanly enough, profoundly stirred by, and more interested in, murder
than any other form of crime. Then, while the cases were "on," and
after they were finished and the verdicts announced, the members
gathered at the club, where the lawyers discussed the opposing
counsel's arguments, the actors considered the facial and bodily
agonies of the accused that they might copy them on the stage, the
artists showed sketches they had made (by stealth when permission was
refused to sketch openly), the doctors and surgeons talked of
medico-chirurgical aspects, the psychologists pretended to explain
mental reactions, the politicians insisted on the government's duty
to the public, the novelists sought for plots. The clergyman quoted
Scripture.
Only two men in the club maintained attitudes of detachment from the
general considerations and conclusions. These two were the chairman
who presided at the gatherings and the waiter who filled the glasses
of the members.
The chairman's reluctance to participate in the discussions was
respected, being recognized as based on two good reasons. Firstly,
he was a Criminal Court judge, one who wore the scarlet robe--emblem
of blood!--and impartially sent men (and women, too) to the scaffold
or to prison, according to the law and the findings of juries. Being
a judge of eminence, it would have been too much to hope that he
should descend to ordinary discussions around a table. Secondly,
being an authority on law, he made an ideal president. His heavy,
judicial manner was just what was expected of him. His massive face,
much longer than it was broad, was made up of features that spoke the
legal mind in every particular. From chin to brow there were furrows
and lines caused by straining to catch counsel's pleadings in his
court; so that speakers never were sure whether he was smiling to
them or at them, or whether he was encouraging them or luring them on
in order, at a given moment, to crush them with a word. Prisoners
had been misled, counsel had been snubbed, juries had been bewildered
by misinterpreting this expression which was an excellent mask. The
Clue Club regarded him as their greatest asset.
As for the waiter, no one expected him to be other than a waiter.
But here there was a touch which no member could personally supply.
The waiter had had a taste of prison. His presence was an
ever-present reminder of the object of the organization.
On this evening, however, the ex-prisoner was not present. He had
found himself suddenly indisposed and a substitute had come who
appeared to be quite as able and as willing to carry out the duties
of servant.
"Gentlemen," said the president, gravely, "it is time we opened the
proceedings."
As he spoke he laid aside the curious, knobbed stick with which he
had called for silence.
The new waiter moved silently out of the shadow behind the
presidential chair and lifted the stick, bearing it to the sideboard
at the head of the room, where he laid it down on two tiny trestles.
This was part of the usual custom, a detail of the ceremony that took
place at every meeting.
It was a strange stick, black with age and hard as iron. It was in
reality a bludgeon, a murderous weapon in the hands of a man who
could use it. But few cared to handle it, for it seemed to exude an
atmosphere of crime. It had been dug up out of the mud of the Thames
during excavations, a relic of a past race when men were fierce and
savage. No modern man's hand could grip it as it had been gripped by
its original owner, who had burned grooves into the handle for his
fingers. Only a primitive hand was competent to wield that weapon,
which doubtless had sent many to death. It was said by those who had
taken the trouble to make research that it had belonged to Kartarus,
the human wolf who came with the Frank and Saxon barbarians on
plundering expeditions to England in the distant past. His sign was
on the gnarled, heavy head of the bludgeon.
The president of the Clue Club had bought it from a dealer in ancient
things and had given it to the club as a contribution, an addition to
the relics the organization already possessed. These relics were
various and worthy of remark. On the walls of the room in which the
members were seated were a few old swords, a pike, and a scythe, all
of which had been used by the mob during the French Revolution.
There was a coat belonging to the late Tsar of Russia, one of the
coats he had worn before he was done to death with his family. There
was a rosary believed to have belonged to Rasputin. A slugshot had
been presented by a member who came from Chicago. On a stand on the
mantelpiece was a small model of the electric chair used to terminate
prisoners' lives in Sing Sing prison. It had come from a New York
member. Beside it was a model of a scaffold in an English prison.
It had been given by a man who had narrowly escaped hanging, owing to
the cleverness of his counsel, a member of the club.
Having laid the black bludgeon of Kartarus on its small oak trestles,
the waiter lifted a decanter and proceeded to fill up the glasses of
the members, beginning, as was the rule, with those at the bottom of
the table and ending with the glass of the president. Into each
glass the waiter poured, with a steady hand, a thin, even stream of
whiskey. He placed siphons here and there and put down glass jugs of
water for those who preferred it that way. Then he stepped back into
the shadow, having carried out the duties as if he had been the
regular waiter and not a deputy.
For a moment there was not a sound in the apartment, but when the
president raised his glass every member followed his example. The
glasses were put down again, all of them now being half empty. The
waiter glided down the table once more, recharging the glasses.
The secretary read the minutes of the previous meeting. These
minutes contained a unanimous resolution declaring for the retention
of the judgment of death in the legal code as a necessary warning to
evildoers and a fitting punishment for criminal killers. This was
the Clue Club's reply to those who sought to abolish executions.
"It was decided," droned the secretary, still reading the minutes,
"that a copy of the resolution be sent to the proper authorities to
strengthen their hands."
The secretary sat down.
The chairman took a sip from his glass, an example that was followed
by every member. The chairman spoke:
"Those in favor of the minutes as read say 'Aye'----"
"Pardon me!"
A new voice had struck into the gathering. Every member turned in
the direction of the voice. It came from the new waiter, who was
standing near the chairman.
"Before you pass these minutes and that resolution, gentlemen, I
should like to be allowed to make a proposal."
The interruption of the club's proceedings was unprecedented, and for
a moment several members wondered if the new waiter had taken leave
of his senses. But the new waiter was quite calm and gave no
indication of being otherwise than perfectly sane. One or two
members smiled patronizingly and the chairman assumed his court
attitude.
"What contribution could you make?" he asked, his massive face
wrinkling up curiously.
"I have a proposal to suggest."
Again there was a short silence, during which the members stared.
The judge's half-closed eyes were resting on the waiter. Every
member expected the man to be annihilated by a phrase from the
chairman.
"You have, of course, no _locus standi_ so far as the discussions of
this club are concerned," went on the judge, and his voice contained
that purring sound that always heralded his most severe moments. "On
the other hand, it cannot be said of the minutes that _literia
scripta manet_. Do you wish to make a plea _in forma pauperis_?"
The waiter bowed.
"I wish to put forward a proposal as _nomo sui juris_. I plead no
_lex scripta_. If you will hear my proposition, it may amuse you and
the members of the club. Believe me, I have an authority I can quote
in support of my seeming audacity."
The judge's features wrinkled more than ever. There was no doubt
that he was smiling now. He recognized a legal mind when he saw one.
"Let us hear your proposition," he said, as the members somewhat
reluctantly signified their agreement. "Proceed as if we had issued
a _writ mandamus_, but blame yourself if you find the plea is
_solvuntur risu tabulæ_."
A ripple of amusement ran round the table. It looked like a case of
a mouse sparring with a lion. The waiter remained impassive until
everybody had settled himself.
"My proposition," he began, "is quite a simple one. It is just this:
you are all interested in crime and you have drafted a resolution
declaring for the legal murder----"
"The legal punishment!" cried a lawyer, quickly.
"Put it that way if you like. You have declared for capital
punishment being retained in the legal code. I have had unique
opportunities of knowing the working of the law and the working of
the minds of those you call criminals. Does it not seem to you that
wherever a law imposes the extreme penalty it really condones murder?
What is the first thing expected of a person accused of murder? Is
it not that he or she should plead 'not guilty'? If he or she
declined to plead 'not guilty' the machinery of the law would be
nonplused until a plea was formulated--a plea that would be a ground
for argument by lawyers. And what does this demand for a plea at all
mean? It means nothing more or less than that the law believes in
the right to kill, but wants to argue about it. The arena is one in
which law and not justice is discussed, and the victory goes to the
sharpest wits. Assuming, then, that I am right in saying that the
law declares its right to kill--and all penal systems had their
origin in the idea of vengeance--cannot it logically be claimed that
a state claims this right because a state is stronger than any
individual? And if a state has the right to kill, why deny that
right to an individual, who may be more concerned in the
circumstances than the state?"
The president raised his head quickly.
"You go too fast," he said. "Society took upon itself the right to
be judge and executioner in private cases because life would become
impossible otherwise."
"Ah," said the waiter, equally quickly, "then you have admitted the
instinct of retaliation to be just. But there have been cases where
the state has held views that were wrong and unethical. In these
cases opposition to these views is permissible and right. I can
quote instances. Take the case of the Passive Resisters of Wales,
led by their clergy. Was it not through the pig-headedness of
England, and her unjust claims, that she lost the whole of the United
States? Other instances abound. They prove that resistance to
absurd laws is justified. I am going to propose something on these
lines now."
He paused and gazed round at the members, some of whom were reclining
listlessly in their chairs rather resenting the intrusion; others
were sitting, elbows on the table, listening to every word.
"I am going to propose," said the waiter, "that you, my lord, having
during your tenure on the bench sent not a few men to the scaffold,
shall be tried for administering an unjust law----"
"I am but the mouthpiece of society. It is the jury that brings in
the verdict!" cried the judge, sitting up quickly in his chair.
"But you have been capable of influencing a jury while you explained
the law. It is in your power to direct a jury----"
"It is a monstrous idea!" cried a lawyer seated down the table. "You
forget yourself, waiter!"
"I do not forget myself. I do not propose an absurdity. I wish to
prove to you that capital punishment is a savage relic retained by
legislatures that are either vicious or are selfishly indolent or
worse----"
"That is not true," interrupted one of the politicians. "The penal
codes of England and America are the mildest on earth and have been
formulated by sympathetic men----"
"It is curious," said the waiter, quietly, "that you should use the
very words of Judge Fielding, who put up the same defense to the
grand jury of Middlesex at a time when people were burned for coining
and had their ears nailed to the pillory for minor offenses. I'll
tell you why the judgment of death has never been abolished by
governments. It is because there is no party capital in the
question. The suggestion to wipe out judgment of death has been
before the British legislature in the years 1868, 1872, 1877, 1881,
and 1886, but each time it has been defeated. The argument has
always been that to abolish it would mean that murders would
increase. Yet it has been proved that death is no deterrent and the
abolition of death no incentive. Let me give you a few facts on this
score."
He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket.
"The death penalty has been abolished in Holland since 1870; in
Switzerland since 1874; in Rumania since 1864. It has been either
abolished or abrogated in Sweden, Norway, Denmark, Portugal, Austria,
Belgium, and in Italy except for certain reservations. There are
eight states in America where it is not admitted; in thirty-three
states a life sentence in prison is the alternative. And in the
remaining states where death is the penalty of murder there are more
murders committed than in the others."
"Let us keep to England," said a lawyer. "We have only four crimes
that are punishable with death."
"I am aware of that," replied the waiter. "The four are: first,
murder; second, treason; third, setting fire to His Majesty's
dockyards; and fourth, piracy with violence. In Scotland the
throwing of vitriol can still be a capital crime. But it is not so
long ago that there were over two hundred acts for which death was
the penalty. Among these, barely a hundred years ago, was the
uprooting of a shrub in a public park; being in the company of
gypsies; impersonating a pensioner of Greenwich; being seen in a mask
in a public highway; damaging a rabbit warren. It was the
squirearchy that made these laws and inflicted the punishment. Are
you aware that in 1810 the Chief Justice of England opposed the
abolition of the death penalty for stealing a few shillings' worth of
goods from a shop? Are you aware that the then Archbishop of
Canterbury and half a dozen prelates sided with the Chief Justice?
In May, 1833, a boy of nine years of age was sentenced to death by
Justice Bosanquet and was hanged for breaking into a house and
stealing twopenny worth of goods. In the year 1840 a boy who, either
in a fit of insanity or in a passion for notoriety, fired a tiny
pistol in the direction of Queen Victoria was sentenced to be hanged,
drawn, and quartered.
"You ask me to keep to England. Listen while I keep to it. Have you
ever heard of the judgment of _peine forte et dure_? Prisoners were
taken to a dungeon, laid on their backs, stripped save for a loin
cloth, and set upon their bodies was a weight of iron just greater
than they could bear. They were given three morsels of coarse bread
on the first day, three draughts of stagnant water from the pool
nearest the prison door on the second day, and so on alternately from
day to day until they died. The sentence of traitors was that they
should be disemboweled. The bishops were witch-burners, the common
clergy took bribes to get prisoners free. It was Bonner, Bishop of
London, Chaplain to the King, who pressed a charge of heresy against
a boy of fifteen years and had him burned at Smithfield. During the
reign of one king--Henry Eighth--no fewer than seventy thousand men,
women, and children went to the scaffold. In every village there
were whipping-posts and stocks. In 1801 a boy of twelve was hanged
for the theft of a spoon."
The waiter stopped talking for a moment, for the judge's hand was
raised as if the latter desired to speak. But his lordship did not
open his lips, though his gaze was fastened on the waiter's features
in a strained way.
"It was not until the year 1837 that a prisoner could have a lawyer
to speak for him. It was not until 1870 that the atrocity of being
hanged, drawn, and quartered was withdrawn in the case of a convicted
traitor. It was not until 1898 that any accused person was permitted
to give evidence on his or her own behalf----"
"If you intend to charge us with all the faults and disorders of
previous administrations," sneered the judge, "we can plead the
statute of limitations with equanimity."
"You have enough to answer for, believe me, without my charging you
with all I have mentioned. I have but adopted an old legal method of
outlining the case by presenting the growth from which the charge
emerges. What was the reason for all those outrages by the state?
It was the assumption, still held, that the state had the sole right
of punishment. Did the rack or the boot have the effect of making
men penitent? Did drowning stop belief in spirits and ghosts? Did
the Spanish Inquisition make men righteous? If execution is a
deterrent, why does not murder cease? If the penal code is a
reformative agency, why are not all prisoners reformed?"
The judge shrugged his shoulders and cast a glance round the table.
To his astonishment he saw that most of the club members were no
longer taking any interest in the argument. Could they be falling
asleep? Heads had fallen aslant shoulders, a few hands were propped
under cheeks for support. A feeling of uneasiness swept over him.
He was used to receiving the utmost respect. In his own court he
would have dealt severely with such contempt.
The secretary, his bundle of papers and minute-book before him, was
still awake, but even he was showing signs of weariness and lassitude.
The judge turned to the waiter anxiously.
"Shall not we postpone this matter----?"
"With due respect, I think not."
"But my ruling is that it is absurd and _ultra vires_----"
"On the contrary, it is quite in order."
The judge was now becoming thoroughly alarmed. There was something
unnatural in the positions that the men about him were taking. There
could be no jury if the members were asleep. He looked again at the
waiter.
"The thought of a mock trial is preposterous and much that you have
said is _ex post facto_ and inadmissible."
"I assure you, this is not a mock trial."
The words, as well as the tone in which they were uttered, caused the
judge to stiffen.
"Explain yourself," he exclaimed with dignity.
"It will not take me long to do so. Practically all your club
members are now unconcerned with our talk. In a few moments only you
and I will be left for the discussion. Look, your secretary is about
to make his exit like the others."
It was true. The secretary was just then in the act of laying his
head on the table, as if overcome with slumber.
"What is the meaning of this?" demanded the judge sternly, rising
quickly to his feet. "Let me look at you!" he cried. "Have I seen
you previously?"
"You have."
"Where?"
"Sit down! Sit down! I shall tell you before we part. In the
meantime let me say that it was I who put something in the glasses of
these members so that they would not disturb us----"
"You have poisoned them!" cried the judge, aghast, as he subsided in
his chair; and in his excitement he began to call some of the members
by name.
There was no response to his shouting. All that was heard was their
heavy breathing; some, indeed, had ceased, apparently, to breathe at
all. They lay limp and lifeless in their chairs, or sprawled on the
table beside the glasses.
"You have poisoned them!" cried the judge for the second time.
The waiter shrugged his shoulders and took a flask from his pocket
and laid it on the table.
"In this flask," he said, calmly, "is an antidote to what I have
given your members in their whiskey. I came here this evening for
the purpose. I persuaded your waiter to let me have his post for one
evening so that I could carry out my intention----"
"You wretch! Was our waiter an accessory before the fact?"
"Never mind your waiter. I am here----"
"He compounded a felony!"
"Ah, always legal! We will discuss the meaning of the term felony
later on if you care----"
"Who are you?" cried the judge, rising again from his chair in
agitation.
"Sit down!"
It was more than an order. It was a threat. The judge obeyed.
"Do not fear that I have poisoned your drink," went on the waiter in
a kinder strain. "I am anxious that you shall have a fair trial."
"Trial!"
"Your club members are not dead."
"Not dead?"
"You shall have a chance to restore them to life."
The president of the Clue Club, who had almost given himself up for
lost and was about to throw himself on the waiter, breathed heavily.
"Before you involve yourself deeper," he said with an effort to
recover his dignity, "I wish to warn you that your actions----"
"Oh, I know what you are going to say. You are thinking of the first
of six divisions into which your Home Office has classified
crime--offenses against the person. Let it be. It reminds me of the
confusion in which this department is stumbling on the very matter
that brought me here."
"There will be no confusion in its estimate of your conduct," flashed
the judge, grimly. He was now beginning to see that he was in no
immediate danger and his judicial mentality was climbing back to its
balance.
The waiter stepped toward the mantelpiece, from which he took two
large candles set in old-fashioned holders. These he placed on the
table while the judge watched him with a puzzled, but rather anxious,
air. It seemed as if the president of the Clue Club was trying to
recall some incident, some memory, that refused to stir from the
depths of his profound legal mind. His concentration on this was
such as to drive all thought of resistance from him. He stroked his
cheek meditatively. He was no longer alarmed, merely uneasy. But
when the waiter snapped out the electric lights he gave vent to an
exclamation.
"What is the meaning of all this?"
"I will explain," replied the waiter, and his voice was now as sharp
as a whip. "I have lit these candles, both of which will burn for
twelve hours, because I do not wish outsiders, especially patrolling
police, to think that the Clue Club is having an all-night sitting.
The curtains will not show the light of the candles on the outside.
It is Christmas Eve. Can you tell me of a better way of spending the
occasion than by trying to prove to me the justice of judgment of
death? Christmas Eve! The Mass of Christ!"
The judge leaped to his feet, and this time he would have made an
attempt to overpower the waiter; but one thing prevented him. The
waiter had taken from the sideboard the bludgeon of Kartarus and was
holding it in readiness. The judge was thoroughly alarmed; but he
was not frightened. Again he obeyed the order to be seated.
"A mad waiter!" he thought. Aloud, in an endeavor to humor the man,
he said, "Lay down that weapon and let us argue about this."
"With all my heart; but I will retain the bludgeon. See, I will lay
it here."
As he placed the black bludgeon on the table the judge could not but
notice that it was within the waiter's reach and just beyond his own.
The waiter sat down facing the judge. The latter summoned his most
persuasive accents to his aid.
"But how can a trial take place when there are no counsel?"
"You yourself have a reputation for successful pleading. Are you not
recognized as an authority? And prisoners have been known to plead
on their own behalf."
"Of course, that is true. You are not unacquainted with procedure.
Am I to be a prisoner, then?"
"It would seem so."
"What is the charge?"
"The charge is that you, being a human being and an administrator of
the law, believe in and practice the sentence of judgment of death on
your fellows."
The judge stroked his chin as he considered.
"What is the penalty incurred in such a belief and practice?"
"Can you logically be blind to that?" asked the waiter, coldly and in
a penetrating voice.
"Oh! You would kill me!"
"Why not?"
A shiver, in spite of his self-command, passed through the judge.
All his doubts as to the earnestness of the man, or the seriousness
of the situation, vanished. He bent a keen, anxious look on the
waiter. If the latter was mad he did not show it outwardly. Yet the
position was outrageous; but it was inescapable.
"Supposing," said the judge, adroitly, but in a voice he hardly knew
as his own, "I asked you what logical right you have to assume the
authority of inflicting any penalty for a belief that is sanctioned
by law, what would you say?"
"I would say that I am surprised you do not observe the situation in
its true aspect. In this room the law you mention no longer has the
supreme word. _Pro tempore_ you must consider the position reversed."
"But surely it is illogical for you, who oppose the judgment of
death, to enunciate the very same penalty for believing in it?"
"Ah, you think you have made a point! Are you afraid of meeting the
fate you have assigned to others? Is it not quite logical that
similar retribution should fall on those who have upheld judgment of
death? It is such a belief that is on trial, not the opposite one.
Besides, while an established law is being overthrown there is
justice in hoisting guilty parties with their own petard, so to
speak. History is the best proof of this. But it has just occurred
to me--were you about to plead that you bow to my theory because of a
desire to save your life?"
"Well, if I did?"
"It would involve a solemn declaration that you would no longer
uphold the law. That would have certain consequences. You would, of
course, never go back on your word. It would mean considerable loss
financially and otherwise--and I would see that your word was kept."
Again the tone warned the judge that this man was not to be trifled
with.
"I see," said the judge.
"But do not think me unreasonable," went on the waiter. "The
situation, as I apprehend it, is this: you uphold the theory of
judgment of death. I oppose it. You are being tried for it. You
have not yet been found guilty. It lies with you whether you will
be. You complained just now of the absence of a jury. I shall give
you the opportunity of having a jury."
"Go on," said the judge, stirring himself and brightening
considerably.
"I have placed here a flask in which there is an antidote to the
lethargy now overcoming your fellow members. For every case out of
your own experience where you can prove the death penalty deserved
you shall have the right to recall one member of this club back from
unconsciousness. Is not that fair?"
"Ah," cried the judge, readily, "that is a reasonable factor." Then,
his hopes rising rapidly, he continued: "I do not wish to retreat
from my point of view. I have held office and have also my opinion
as a private individual. Perhaps I may convert you. It will not be
impossible to prove from the cases which have come before me--cases
in which I have donned the emblem of death, the black cap--that the
sentences were deserved. We may take these cases as typical."
"Very well. And for every case I show you that the sentence was
unjust I shall claim a member. That is, a member shall remain
unconscious."
The judge hesitated, and the waiter saw the reluctance to agree to
the condition.
"Are you afraid of failure?" he demanded.
"Not at all, but----"
"Then accept my challenge!"
The judge's face wrinkled, as observers had so often seen it wrinkle
in his court. The challenge was to his self-esteem as well as to his
forensic ability, both of which were of a high order. He gazed at
the unconscious members, then at the waiter. If only he had the aid
of one of his friends he could bring this unheard-of situation to a
satisfactory end. Had he been younger he would have tackled the man
single-handed. If only one of the members was in full possession of
his faculties!
"If I accept your challenge," he said at last and with a show of
condescension, "I shall argue the issue as I apprehend it. We
lawyers, you know, as the oath has it, do not admit any influence in
our minds, under any conditions, of any emotional character--no
passion, no affection----"
"What!" thundered the other. "Do you, then, eliminate emotion from
the fatherhood of your children?"
Astounded at the vehemence of the shout, the judge shrank. His face
blanched and it was some moments before the blood flowed back to his
features.
"You misunderstand," he said. "I am a bachelor."
"In that case," retorted the waiter, but in a calmer tone, "you have
a certain advantage over your learned brethren on the bench."
The judge was angry and ruffled at his own show of alarm. He was
indignant, too.
"I accept your challenge," he announced, sharply. "There is no need,
either, for me to rely entirely on my memory for the cases I shall
quote. They are mentioned in the minute-book of this club.... A
last point, however, arises. It is usual"--and his tone was gently
sarcastic--"in all cases about to be tried. Under what statute do
you make your charge?"
The reply came swiftly enough:
"Under the same authority as that on which you yourself rely--the
_lex talionis_ injunction of Mosaic law which is laid down in the
Book of Exodus, chapter twenty-one."
The judge stretched out his hand and opened the minute-book.
CHAPTER II
_The Judge States His First Case_
May it please your authority [began the judge in his best legal
manner as he turned over the pages of the minute-book and placed his
finger on a page] the case I am about to put before you is one of
quite recent occurrence. It deals with one of the most brutal, one
of the most indefensible, murders that have ever come under my
observation.
Furthermore, it was characterized by an entire absence on the part of
the public at large of that misguided, but often quite honest,
sympathy for murderers which leads people to sign futile petitions
for a reprieve or a stay of execution. Of the petitions on behalf of
convicted murderers in America I cannot speak, nor can I say how many
persons are sentenced to death in the United States on an average
during a year; but an official return lately furnished by the Home
Office of the British Government states that the average annual
number of persons sentenced to death in England and Wales is about
twenty-five. Of that number about fourteen are actually hanged.
The reasons for reprieving the others are various. It may be that
the petitions so diligently, but so thoughtlessly, issued for public
signature have some slight influence. It may be that the generosity
of the Home Secretary, or the pusillanimity of some other official,
is at work in favor of those who escape the scaffold. It is not my
prerogative in the present circumstances to inquire into, or to
explain, this. I merely mention these figures in order to emphasize
that not a single petition was issued, not a solitary protest was
made, not a word was uttered, so far as I am aware, to stay the hand
of the law's sentence on Ammar Baddan.
There was no question about his guilt. It is true his counsel
formally entered a plea of "not guilty," but from the very beginning
of the case to the very end that plea never had a leg to stand on.
It was, indeed, negatived by the prisoner himself, and his words when
he was asked (as is always done) if he had anything to say before
sentence was passed on him, indicated the casual attitude he adopted
to the end. These are his words, written in this minute-book:
"I do not care for your sentence. I do not care for your law. It
was my wife who got the lawyer. I despise him and his tricks. It is
true I killed John Hamlin. Why do I say this? You are fools who do
not understand. But I know what the Book of Wisdom says and by that
Book I have ruled my life. I say I killed Hamlin. By saying so I am
doing what I was taught, and that is to always tell the truth, even
to you people when we witness before God, although it be against
ourselves or our parents or our relatives, whether the party be rich
or poor; for God is more worthy than both."
The jury listened to this statement. In two minutes they brought in
a verdict of guilty and I pronounced sentence. I called his crime,
and still call it,
THE UNREASONABLE MURDER
Ammar Baddan was a Tamil, a native of southern India, one of the
Dravidian races who are admitted to possess many good qualities such
as frugality, patience, endurance, politeness. They have astounding
memories. They are pronouncedly commercial. All these facts came
out at the trial of Ammar Baddan.
But Ammar Baddan had left London one evening by train, had journeyed
down to a Surrey country town, and had deliberately cut the throat of
John Hamlin, the proprietor of an inn. And the most amazing element
of that brutal murder was that Ammar Baddan had never in all his life
seen Hamlin before that evening, had never had any dealings with him,
and until a few days previously was not aware of his existence.
On the other hand, it was proved that John Hamlin, the innocent
victim of this savage attack, knew nothing of Ammar Baddan. It was a
case of the unexplained frenzy of an Eastern nature--the sudden
madness for killing, the lust for blood, that stirs up in some
natures without reason and without provocation. It was the savagery
of the tiger that must be suppressed wherever it is observed and
dealt with wherever it comes to the surface.
The unfortunate victim of this outrage had done Ammar Baddan no harm
whatever. Can society continue if it allows people of the jungle to
perpetrate a crime of inexcusable violence for which there is no
reason and which is callously admitted? We would be lacking in our
duty to our fellows were we not to administer the final judgment in
cases where the whole fabric of the social order is menaced.
The counsel for the prosecution of Ammar Baddan confessed that he had
some difficulty in finding a motive for the crime. Let us take his
statement first. Baddan was a native of India. He was born in the
south of that vast country, but his father, who was a humble
merchant, traveled up to Calcutta and there established a business
that grew with the years. He prospered so well that he was known as
one of the greatest buyers of antiques and bric-à-brac in that part
of India. His son, at the age of sixteen, as is the custom of the
race, took upon himself the status of a man and became his father's
partner. The father died only a few months before his son was
arrested for the appalling crime of murder.
Perhaps it would be as well to state here what the prosecuting
counsel thought fit to mention, namely, that while the Tamils as a
race are the possessors of the good qualities that have been
indicated, they are also, it seems, as a race, handicapped by the
drawbacks of lying and lasciviousness. One merely repeats what
counsel stated.
As a youth Ammar Baddan had an excellent training. He knew the
_Kural_ by heart and was known to propound its teaching on the
subjects of virtue, wealth and enjoyment. By religion he was a
Brahman and knew the whole of the text-books called Brahmanas.
Shortly after he was sixteen years of age he was conducted to a
spiritual teacher and received the sacred cord which is worn over the
left shoulder and under the right arm, one of the signs of initiation
into the study of the Vedas, the management of the sacred fire, and
the knowledge of the rites of purification. By caste he was a
_Kshatriya_.
As a young man he knew Calcutta well and traveled considerably. He
learned the English tongue and spoke as well as an Englishman. Thus,
it will be seen that he was not ignorant of what is right and what is
wrong. His grounding in moral training was as comprehensive as it
was severe. Did not this make his crime all the more heinous?
It is well known that the Tamils are the most enterprising of all the
peoples of south India. They are born merchants. Wherever there is
an opportunity for commerce they are to be found. As Ammar Baddan
grew older he was respected and his commercial ability was even
greater than that of his father. The prayers which had been said
before and at his birth were being answered. He was a force in the
city of Bengal.
His education and politeness brought him many friends, among them
many white men who were in business in Calcutta. One man especially
was his friend, an Englishman named Taylor. Business had brought
them together and, as is often the case, it was often the cause of
social meetings. On one occasion they both attended a party which
some Englishmen were giving to a theatrical company that had arrived
in Calcutta and it was at that party that Ammar Baddan met the girl
who soon afterward became his wife.
He had seen this girl in the chorus of the show at the theater and
had been attracted by her, and when his friend Taylor, who was
friendly with the company, gave him the opportunity of meeting them
off the stage, Ammar Baddan's delight was boundless. His ardent
nature had already focused on this girl.
The supper party took place in a hotel after the theater performance
was over. Doubtless most people are aware that there are men who
make a point of inviting actresses--and especially chorus girls--to
supper parties because of the lack of restraint that is, rightly or
wrongly, said to be connected with the theatrical temperament. It
was Taylor who introduced the girl to Ammar Baddan. She was very
pretty, with golden hair and all the attractions of a blonde. One
can imagine that the wine flowed freely. There was an incident
during the evening when one of the white men made some sort of
proposal that every man should kiss every girl present. To Ammar
Baddan's great relief the blonde girl refused to comply with the
vulgar and insulting proposal. This incident confirmed his estimate
of the girl and made him all the more determined to pursue his
attentions to her, for she had demonstrated that she was above the
rather low level on which his white friends had, by insinuation,
placed their guests.
From that moment Ammar Baddan saw as much of the ladies of the
theatrical company as possible. He had a shop in the Chowringhee,
the most important thoroughfare of the city, and he invited them to
look on his treasures and presented them all with mementoes of their
visit. He visited the race course with them, always being near the
blonde girl, showed to her and explained the monuments on the Maidan,
and took her and some of her friends, with Taylor and a few men, on
several trips up the Hugli. He made himself extremely agreeable,
once taking the ladies to the Zoölogical Gardens, and on every
occasion his friend Taylor accompanied the party.
His politeness never forsook him, and a short time before the company
left Calcutta for Madras he came to Taylor and asked him if he would
advise making a declaration of his love for the girl with the golden
hair. Taylor asked for some time to consider the matter, and finally
told him that there was no reason why he should not at least tell
her. One supposes that the question of caste and the problem of
marriage between two people of different races had to be considered.
In the end Ammar Baddan boldly made the opportunity and asked the
girl to marry him. She consented, and Ammar Baddan went in
transports of happiness to his friend Taylor and thanked him for
bringing this joy into his life. They were married shortly afterward.
Such, then, was Ammar Baddan's life up to the time he remained in
India. All these particulars were known during his trial, though
they did not all come out; but they are stated in some detail to show
how fair our law is, and how thorough, before it takes upon itself
the grave responsibility of passing sentence.
Ammar Baddan had been married for less than a year when he came to
England, bringing his wife with him. His reason for coming may be
stated briefly.
His father had, in the course of his business, secured a very rare
and valuable carpet. It was, apparently, more a praying rug than a
carpet, and it had a duplicate that Ammar Baddan and his father also
wished to possess. Remember that, as has been stated, the Tamils are
wonderfully keen business men. Having secured the one carpet, Ammar
Baddan and his father set out to trace its duplicate. They searched
India; their agents went as far as Persia and Egypt. How these
things are known is part of the secrets of the trade, but Ammar's
father came to him one day with the information that the duplicate of
the carpet which they wanted had been in a bazaar in Madras and had
been sold to an Englishman.
Ammar's wife was in the apartment when this news was given to her
husband, and after her father-in-law had gone his wife added to the
information. She told him that she believed that the duplicate of
his carpet was in the possession of the Englishman, Taylor. She had
seen it in his flat, but had not understood that it was so valuable
as Ammar estimated; and had, indeed, not known that the search was
being made until that moment.
Ammar was overjoyed at the news. He loved his wife very much and
promised her that for the information he would give her any present
she asked for. But first he made a journey over to Howrah, on the
opposite side of the Hugli, where Taylor lived, to make inquiries.
On his return he told his wife, with mortification, that Taylor had
left India and had gone to England, having made his fortune and
having no reason for remaining in a country that was trying to the
health of even the strongest white man.
He questioned his wife thoroughly about the carpet she had seen in
Taylor's house, in order to make sure that she was not mistaken. But
his wife held to her statement, and, with the carpet already in their
possession on the floor for comparison she proved that Taylor had the
duplicate. It had been on the wall of Taylor's bedroom and she had
seen it in detail. In haste Ammar went off to his father. The
result was that as soon as they could make the necessary arrangements
Ammar and his wife came to England.
They took a flat in the West End of London and Ammar's wife spent
most of her time enjoying the life of the metropolis and renewing old
acquaintances. She was gay, beautiful, happy. She had plenty of
money and went about without a care, while Ammar visited some of his
Indian friends who had business quarters in the city and were likely
to help him in his quest.
It was not very difficult to trace Taylor. The latter had taken a
house in the country, but still within touch of London, had married,
and was taking life leisurely. But when Ammar Baddan made the short
journey to meet Taylor he experienced a sense of disappointment. He
had expected that Taylor, having been his friend in India and having
introduced him to his wife when she was a chorus girl, would preserve
the friendship and welcome them to his house. He found that Taylor
did nothing of the kind. One can understand this attitude on the
part of Taylor. In India social customs are on a somewhat different
footing from the social customs here. It may have been that Taylor's
attitude was influenced by his wife, who did not care to meet a white
woman who had married a Tamil. At any rate, the old barriers seemed
to arise and Ammar Baddan saw the change.
With his Tamil politeness he accepted the situation and proceeded to
work round to the object of his visit, which, after all, was the
buying of the carpet. He managed this so adeptly that Taylor had
already admitted that he did possess such a carpet and also that he
held it in small financial esteem. The Tamil asked all sorts of
questions about it--how Taylor had come to possess it, who saw him
buy it, who carried it to his flat in Howrah, who hung it on the wall
of his bedroom. Taylor answered that nobody but himself and his
manservant had handled it from the time it was bought in the Indian
bazaar to the time it was in his flat. And then Ammar Baddan asked
to see the carpet and was shown it. He offered a price that Taylor
thought was good and the bargain was made.
As they concluded the business matter and after Ammar Baddan had paid
the check over he thanked Taylor once more for proving his friend.
"Twice," he said, "you have given me my desires. First, it was
because of you that I have my beautiful wife. Second, it is through
you that I have the beautiful carpet. A Tamil does not forget."
That visit was the first and the last that Ammar Baddan made to the
house of Taylor. In spite of the polite, if not very friendly, way
he had been met, Ammar Baddan, having the outlook of a Tamil, almost
succeeded in making Taylor a little uncomfortable in front of his
wife. They began to talk of Calcutta and the old days. Ammar Baddan
wanted to know everything. He was so anxious for the safety of the
carpet he had bought that he wished Taylor's manservant to carry it
to the station for him so that no new hands would touch it. To this
Taylor replied that he no longer employed the servant, who had
started life anew in England as the proprietor of a small inn in
Surrey. Ammar Baddan asked how a manservant could have obtained the
money to buy an inn, and Taylor laughingly answered that he supposed
John Hamlin--the name of his manservant--had fleeced him of enough
money in India to make this possible. At any rate, Hamlin seemed to
be making a good living in the town of Whitchurch. And then, with
Tamil simplicity, Ammar Baddan asked Taylor if he too had obtained
his wife from a theatrical company, and if the theatrical company
they had known in Calcutta had supplied her. This was asked in front
of Mrs. Taylor, who happened to be a lady of strict views, and one
can imagine that Taylor had to use considerable diplomacy in his
answers.
He managed to hint, indeed, before Ammar left and when they were
alone, that it was not always discreet to refer to matters of that
kind in front of wives; and then they parted. Only after he had made
inquiries a day or two later did Taylor realize that Ammar Baddan had
obtained his carpet at a mere fraction of its actual value.
All these incidents show the tortuous workings of the mind of a man
whose instincts and racial traditions differ so greatly from our own.
Taylor never saw Ammar Baddan again and was probably glad to get rid
of him. He related the facts of Baddan's visit to him when the
police called in order to gather evidence of motive. But it was from
one of the servants of the flat where Ammar Baddan and his wife lived
in the West End of London that some peculiar information was obtained.
Baddan was a fanatical Brahman. We need not trouble to inquire
whether his wife had adopted his faith. A wife may not give evidence
against her husband in any case according to our wise law. But in
the sitting-room of the flat Baddan had placed one of the Brahman
gods, a small figure of Kala Bhairava as he is known in Hindu
religion, Bhairon as he is known among the Dravidian peoples.
This god--it was brought into court but was not exhibited--represents
a man standing with one hand holding a trident and in the other a
drum shaped like an hour-glass. Encircling him is a serpent to show
his chthonic origin. In the chest of this figure are two small
holes, and into these holes Ammar Baddan would put two betel nuts,
then begin the long religious exercises of his caste. The servants
heard him every night at these devotions. Sometimes he spoke in an
Indian dialect, sometimes in English; but his object seemed to be the
same on every occasion. So far as the servant could make out, if the
nut on the right dropped out of the hole first, Ammar Baddan would
exclaim that his undertaking would prosper. If the nut on the left
dropped first, he would declare to the god that he would abandon his
project for the time being. Just before he set out to commit the
heinous crime of murdering John Hamlin he was heard at his devotions.
He had bought a hunting-knife a few days previously and this weapon
was seen in his possession by a servant.
But if the nut in the right cavity in the figure of the god Bhairon
indicated to Ammar Baddan that his crime would be hidden, the god
played him false.
The crime itself was as swift as it was staggering. Ammar Baddan
arrived that evening in the quiet Surrey town just after the inns
closed. He walked up the main street, looking at the names of the
inns.
Less than an hour later John Hamlin was found lying in his parlor
with his throat slit from ear to ear. By the time the police were on
the spot Ammar Baddan was seated in a first-class compartment of a
train bearing him back to London.
To the village police it looked at first to be a case of suicide.
Hamlin's business was not going too well. He had debts. He had been
heard to complain about malaria, of which he was a victim. And to
make it more like suicide there was held in his stiffening fingers,
as he lay beside his chair, a murderous hunting-knife.
But when inquiries were started a barmaid stated that just before she
retired she heard the front-door bell ring. She heard Hamlin go to
the door. It seemed to her that he brought some one into the inn.
She did not hear any struggle, but she heard Hamlin call out the
words, "Hindu swine!"
It was the local policeman who found Hamlin dead. He had flashed his
lamp on the door of the inn and had observed that it was not closed.
He knocked and received no reply. He stepped inside and saw a
trickle of blood coming from the parlor threshold.
A few days later, when the police had made their inquiries, an
officer called on Ammar Baddan when he was preparing, with his wife,
to return to India. When Ammar Baddan saw that he was to be arrested
he evinced no surprise and did not deny his crime. But he was
interested to know how the police had tracked him.
"The local constable," he was told, frankly, "happened to see you
walking up the street that night, looking at the inn signs. He noted
that you were a colored man. We found out the firm that made the
hunting-knife, and from them we traced it to you. But we knew it
could not have been suicide after we considered the nature of the
wound. John Hamlin's throat was slit from left to right. But John
Hamlin was left-handed."
What, then, was the motive of the brutal murder? The prosecuting
counsel suggested one. It was that Ammar Baddan had gone to see John
Hamlin, not perhaps with the intention of murdering him, but possibly
with the object of getting some information about the buying of the
carpet, for in the purchase of these rare articles every detail is
recorded. Hamlin was known to have a contempt for all Indians. He
may have said a word--"Hindu swine," as the barmaid heard--and in a
moment the blaze of the Eastern hot blood flew to Ammar Baddan's
head. This was the theory of the prosecution.
But when the defense was called the counsel who had entered a plea of
"not guilty" found himself in an unheard-of position. He placed
Ammar Baddan in the box.
"Did you," he asked, "go down to see John Hamlin with the intention
of killing him?"
"I did," replied Baddan, firmly.
Fearing lest the question had been misunderstood, it was repeated.
Again the reply was the same.
The defending counsel saw his case dwindling before his eyes. He
seemed to appeal to the bench, and I took upon myself the task of
asking Ammar Baddan a few questions.
The replies I received were deliberate, calm, without fear, without
repentance. He had decided to kill John Hamlin. He had schemed to
do so. He had taken counsel with his god and had been led to think
that all would be well.
I asked him what was his motive. His reply left much to be desired.
These were his words:
"No Brahman may recite a Vedic text where a man of a servile caste
may overhear him, nor must he teach him the laws of expiation for
sin."
I asked him if John Hamlin had committed any sin against Brahmanism
or against him. He replied, "No."
It was impossible to get more out of him. His defending counsel
threw in his brief in despair. And to make matters worse, when I
asked Ammar Baddan if he understood the crime he had committed, he
answered angrily that he would repeat it, were it possible. He
admitted that he had received no words from Hamlin that had been the
cause of the murder. But he was glad he had murdered.
In face of this there was but one thing to do. I donned the black
cap.
He died, I understand, on the scaffold, fiercely cursing the white
law that put him to death, but entirely without penitence.
My own theory is that somewhere in his mentality, somewhere deep down
in his nature, there was a blood-lust, a streak of barbarity, a whiff
of the jungle, that he never tried to control. How else is it
possible for a human being to take satisfaction in murder? Is not
society to be protected from such natures? Are innocent people to be
butchered by such savages? By taking the life of Ammar Baddan the
penal code was acting with entire justice for the sake of everybody
concerned. One cannot argue with a mad dog. One just destroys it.
Criminal characteristics must be extirpated.
The judge sat back in his chair and looked at the waiter, who had not
moved during the recital.
"I think," said the judge, "that there can be no two opinions in
regard to that murder. You must allow me credit for having presented
a case that demands the retention of the judgment of death, if
unbridled barbarism is to be held in check at all. I claim the
return to consciousness of the secretary."
The waiter stirred himself and looked up.
"Your claim is premature," he said, quietly. "Ammar Baddan was
justified in killing John Hamlin."
The judge could hardly believe his ears.
"I am speaking according to the code of honor that ruled Ammar
Baddan," went on the waiter. "Let me place that code before you and
also give you the real reason that the murder took place. It is
perhaps more than was to be expected that Ammar Baddan would give
that reason. It would have meant his own humiliation."
"Humiliation cannot be compared to murder," cried the judge. "We all
bear humiliation, but we do not murder the people who humiliate us!"
"That is true," smiled the waiter, "else you would be making an
attempt to kill me this very moment. But I speak of two different
codes of honor. Has it struck you that the Tamil god you have
mentioned has functions other than telling his followers when to
undertake a venture? Among his attributes--according to his
believers--are those of being able to destroy the foes of his
worshipers, through the worshipers themselves. They strike and the
god protects their souls, if not their bodies. One of the highest
aims of any good Brahman is to raise himself in the universal
gradation, and to do this he must subject the senses and life itself
if necessary. Ammar Baddan was but following out the sacrificial
system in the _kalpa-sutras_."
"I do not follow you," said the judge, huskily.
"I will explain more fully, and shortly. The Tamil Book of Wisdom is
called the _Naladiyar_. It enjoins rigid adherence to its teaching.
There are four hundred quatrains in it. The rules of life are as
severe as the Christian teaching--but I beg your pardon, white
civilization does not know much about Christianity. Among the
injunctions given the high-caste Indians are those to see that no
gossip, no humiliation, besmirches the honor of their fathers' names.
Poor Ammar Baddan was betwixt two terrible alternatives. If he
allowed his father's, and his own, name to be sullied, he might
escape a penalty here, but he would endure countless years of
retarded development in the hereafter. Which was he to choose?"
"He must not murder!"
"But one of his codes distinctly told him that it was better to
sacrifice than to endure humiliation from his deities! Would the
gods not make up to him any pain he endured here, even if he died?"
"But what was his humiliation?"
"Answer me first this: are not most religious systems based on the
theory that it is better to suffer here in order to obtain
advancement in the next world?"
"Yes, I agree to that."
"Supposing such a choice were given you, which would you take?"
"I would keep the laws of my land."
"But supposing you were in a land where the laws were opposed to all
you had been taught as sacred and right? Would you keep the laws of
that land?"
"It is a hypothetical question. I do not see what point you are
making."
"No, you say so, but you do. And you do not care to make a brave
answer. But Ammar Baddan was a brave man. He saw according to his
light, and he chose. It is the eternal clash between one's ideas of
justice and the thing we call life. Listen to me. I shall tell you
why Ammar Baddan killed John Hamlin, and despised your law though
that law slew him."
"I have been waiting to hear."
"Hear, then. There is a code in Ammar Baddan's ethics that says that
if a wife proves unfaithful it is better that the mouths of gossipers
be stopped than that her husband's name be dragged in the mire, and
his father's name, too. Ammar Baddan visited the merchant Taylor for
two purposes. One was to get the carpet. But it was not the main
one. It was to see if Taylor was likely to do any gossiping. He
saw, according to your own words, that Taylor, being married, would
be glad to see no more of Ammar Baddan and Ammar Baddan's wife. That
is to say, Taylor, for his own sake, would not gossip. The secret
that was eating at Ammar Baddan's heart was safe so far as Taylor was
concerned."
"You mean to say----"
"That from the moment Ammar Baddan heard from his wife that the
carpet had hung in Taylor's bedroom there arose in Ammar Baddan's
mind a terrible fear and agony. I do not know whether Taylor was
guilty of what Ammar Baddan suspected. It may have been that Ammar
Baddan received a confession from his wife. Who shall ever know?
And yet, I do not think so, or she would have told the defending
counsel. A Tamil does not expect such a confession. He would never
ask for one. But his mind brooded on the fact that she knew the
carpet hung in Taylor's bedroom. How could she know that? Ammar
Baddan's Tamil mind formed its own conclusion.
"There were only four people who could know the dreadful truth. Thus
Ammar Baddan would argue. Taylor had shown that the past was better
unspoken. Therefore Taylor would never voice it. Of these four
people only one might gossip. Are not servants given to gossip?
Ammar Baddan probably asked John Hamlin a question and, on the
answer, killed him for his father's good name, for his own good name,
and for his wife's future. Thus there would be no gossip in the
market place and the house of Baddan would be unsullied. Quaint,
perhaps. All things in this world are quaint when looked at from
unusual angles.
"Has the judgment-of-death code a right to supersede a religious
code? Who are you to say that your law is more just in the ultimate
end than an accepted sacred law? How do you know that Ammar Baddan
is not now far advanced in the scheme of things in the other world?
You made a felon of a religious enthusiast."
The waiter lifted the glass that was near the elbow of the
unconscious secretary and placed it near the bludgeon on the table.
"One point to me," he said in a tone of grim finality.