_The Judge States His Second Case_
One thing must certainly be said in favor of the judge at this stage.
He took the surprising revelation very well.
A faint, bitter smile hovered around his lips for some time. It was
just such a smile as had appeared on his features when he had learned
for the first and only time in his career that his judgment had been
upset by a higher court. This had occurred a long time previously,
and the barristers who pleaded before him seemed, on the following
morning, to adopt a trifle more confidence, a subtle, hardly
distinguishable self-assurance. But the judge had had his revenge.
The higher court had admitted at a later sitting that the law, in
this particular instance, was anything but clear, and they had
recommended that a new statute be drafted on the basis of the judge's
interpretation.
Probably something came to his memory of that vindication as he now
considered the waiter before him. It was the latter who first broke
the silence.
"Courtesy compels me to put the usual question to your lordship. Is
there anything you wish to say against my finding?"
The judge shook his head, but his eye was fixed on the two glasses
beside the bludgeon.
"Presuming that your identity is as you admit, there is nothing very
useful that I can say in objection. But the name you gave to me just
now is not that in which you came here as waiter----"
"It is merely one of my aliases."
"One of them? Interesting enough. A man of your intelligence need
not be reminded, in that case, that you are liable to prosecution----"
"Provided I allow the police to prosecute."
"It is altogether a remarkable situation."
"Brought about by remarkable circumstances."
"I do not follow."
"It would be cruel for me to tantalize your curiosity without limit.
I do not intend to do so. But, on the other hand, the time has not
arrived for me to satisfy it."
The judge murmured something that was scarcely audible. The waiter
bent forward.
"No," he said, quietly, "I do not think that you will hear it all
from the bench. The fact is that I came here as waiter so that we
could discuss in private the subject of the penal code so far as it
applies to the judgment of death. There is never any opportunity for
a prisoner in the dock to engage an eminent judge in controversy. No
judge would listen----"
"The time of the court could not be wasted," smiled the judge, now
more than ever convinced that he had to deal with a lunatic and
anxious to avoid a rupture.
"Therefore, for that very reason, I designed this meeting with your
lordship. I hope it is proving quite as agreeable as your favorite
chess game, though so far you have lost two men and gained none."
The judge made a motion of his hand to signify that the loss of the
men did not give him any regret--a gesture that did not by any means
indicate his true feelings.
"Chess is an old game," he remarked. "I believe one of the Chinese
rulers used to play it with living men. When these men were lost,
according to the rules of the game the ruler and his opponent made
the ending completely novel by taking off the men's heads on the
spot! One imagines there was not any great enthusiasm to become
chessmen."
"That, of course, was murder," commented the waiter, sternly.
The judge, who had mentioned the ancient game with live men in a
jocular vein, controlled the ripple of mirth that he was about to
express at his own joke. He saw that the waiter did not agree with
his humor, so he was silent.
"It is just on the same ground that I object, in one way, to modern
judgment of death," went on the waiter with a show of anger. "These
chessmen's lives depended not on their own deserts, nor on justice,
but on the ability of the ruler and his opponent to play chess! On
their vacillating decisions, in fact. Is it just that an issue of
life or death should depend on that? Yet that is what happens today."
"I still hold," said the judge firmly, "that your estimate of capital
punishment is both unpopular and unworkable----"
"You cannot deny that the final decision, notwithstanding the verdict
of juries and judicial pronouncements, lies in the hands of whoever
happens to be Home Secretary. The personal moods, resolution,
firmness, or weakness of that official are the frail balance----"
"There is always a tribunal of the Court of Criminal Appeal----"
"Who judge, like you, on the legal code and administer it in the same
way--death for the uncontrollable frenzy of a moment as for the
considered poisoning of a long period. A gunman from Chicago and a
betrayed girl in London have both been found guilty of murder and
sentenced to execution though their respective measures of
criminality were entirely different."
"Ah, the old idea of making the punishment fit the crime is just what
capital punishment does," cried the judge. "I will give you an
instance that will convince you. Will you please let me have the
minute-book for a moment as I refresh my memory."
He assumed something of his heavy authority as he stretched out his
hand and took the book which the waiter passed over to him.
The fact was that the judge was still smarting under the reprimand he
had just received when he told the story of the living chessmen. He
was so used to counsel and witnesses bursting into guffaws at his wit
that he experienced a sense of irritation when his playfulness was
without this gratifying result. Had the waiter only been in the
witness box how the judge would have roasted him! Had he been in the
dock----!
A KILLER BY NATURE
There was a look of cold disdain in his eyes as he raised his head
and pushed the book a little to one side. Then, in his court voice,
without emotion, yet with emphasis on the right words, he related the
following case, adopting the waiter's method, perhaps unconsciously.
I had great satisfaction [came the lofty authoritative
pronouncement], in donning the black cap and sending Abe Lammie to
the scaffold. He was a natural criminal.
Never in all my years on the bench was I so revolted at a crime as at
his. Hanging was his deserts. Death was his due. Extinction was
his fate. I had no pity for him, nothing but loathing, anger,
contempt. These emotions were shared by the jury, who did their duty
as honest and just men. So thoroughly was I in agreement with their
verdict--which I had plainly hinted to them was the only one they
could possibly bring in--that I exempted them from service for five
years. They did not leave the box, but found Lammie guilty without a
second's hesitation.
My experience in legal matters--in the humble position I occupy and
during my early days--leads me to believe that the best way to reduce
crime to the irreducible minimum is to make the risks greater than
the recompense. But this man was a living contradiction to the
theory as he was a contrast to ordinary criminal methods and
theories. Therefore he was a greater danger to society, which must
be protected; society, whose mouthpiece I am, deserved to be rid of
him. I, like the jury, did not falter in my duty or responsibilities.
Had there been no risk Abe Lammie would probably have passed by the
temptation to rifle the safe of a certain West End store. Had he
passed by that temptation the watchman would not have lost his life.
It was Lammie's nature to burrow and to attack from unexpected
quarters. He had entered the store and had struck down the watchman
before the latter could protect himself. A mean, brutal blow, it was.
He had approached this job by the tortuous way that many times had
baffled the police. Most criminals would have hidden in the store at
closing time and would have attacked the safe when the watchman was
in a distant part of the building. But this man, Abe Lammie, was
called by his confederates by the name of The Mole. He was indeed
such an animal. He attacked the watchman before he attacked the safe.
His record showed that in one thing only did he resemble his fellow
criminals. He watched a job, as they call a burglary, before he set
to work on it; but even in this he differed from his mates. What he
watched for in any job was not the easiest way of escape, but the
difficulties which he might turn to his advantage.
Lammie did not choose any of the hiding-places this store offered to
burglars. He could have crept under a counter before closing-time.
He might have hidden himself among hanging garments. He might have
stepped into a cupboard. All these are places usually sought by
burglars just on closing-time. But Lammie worked according to his
own theories. He entered the premises through a manhole in the
pavement at the back of the building.
He wore rubber-soled shoes. To make sure that the watchman would
come his way he deliberately upset a glass stand of displayed goods.
When the watchman did appear Lammie knew him. The man had been a
jailbird. Lammie recognized him at once. He had seen him in prison,
and Lammie recollected that this man had tried to speak to him once,
but a warder had intervened. All this passed through The Mole's
brain rapidly. As the watchman stooped to examine the smash The Mole
struck him down.
He left the watchman lying there while he made his way to the safe.
There were several hours at his command since the watchman was out of
the way, and he worked carefully. The police gave him credit for
being a good burglar. His burner went through the door of the safe
quickly and the lock fell into his hands.
The safe contained many things for which he did not have any use.
There were ledgers, cash books, account books, letter files. These
Lammie did not touch until he had pulled on a pair of gloves. He
took two books down to where the watchman lay huddled on the floor.
Lifting the dead man's right hand, he smeared the tips of the fingers
with dust and pressed them on the binding. He had the destroyed lock
of the safe in his pocket and he pressed the tips of the watchman's
fingers against it also. Then he returned to the safe.
He placed the books so that it might be thought they had fallen when
the safe door opened. He put the lock on the floor. Then he delved
into the drawers containing the cash. It was made up in bundles of
notes held together by elastic bands. As the store had a _bureau de
change_, there were a number of foreign notes; but Lammie took only
the British ones. Altogether he had loot in hard cash to the value
of nearly a thousand pounds.
He emptied the silver into a canvas bag which he took from his
pocket. Leaving the safe door open, he rose to his feet and
carefully brushed the floor so that the dust would not tell tales.
His footprints did not trouble him. Flat rubber leaves practically
no mark, and as dozens of people had already passed that way during
the day his footprints could not be distinguished.
With his booty stowed in his pockets and his tools in the leather
pouch inside his waistcoat he went to the jewelry section. Here he
closely inspected the cases with the aid of an electric torch. A
case of gold watches attracted him. He smashed the glass and helped
himself.
In all he took over two dozen watches. They were the best in the
case--goods he could sell quickly and without trouble. He inserted
them into small pouches in his belt specially adapted for articles of
jewelry. He next selected several watches and other goods of lesser
value and carried them to where the watchman's body lay. He put the
articles into the dead man's pockets and--it may have cost him a
heartbeat--he also put a five-pound note in beside them.
He searched the dead body for the keys necessary for what he had
still to do. Having secured the keys, he went to the door at the
back of the premises by which the staff entered. On the back of the
door was a burglar alarm which Lammie disconnected. He opened the
door, peering out as cautiously as the animal after which he was
named. The street was deserted. He shut the door and ran back to
the watchman.
Hoisting the body on his shoulders, he returned to the door. Before
he opened it this time he put the keys back into the watchman's
pocket. He peered out again. All was quiet. He placed the body on
the sidewalk near the gutter. Then he walked away. His burglary and
murder were complete.
He went straight home after having a cup of coffee at a dingy stall
in a mean street. He and his wife occupied a small flat on the
ground floor of a tall, shabby house in a shabby suburb. The flat
consisted of two rooms, one facing the front, the other facing the
back. Lammie occupied the back room, his wife the front. There was
a reason for this, as there was a reason for everything The Mole
dictated. He had thus two means of entrance and exit. The windows
of both rooms were auxiliaries to the doors.
He was awakened in the morning by his wife, who was standing by his
bedside, her hand on his shoulder. In her hand was a newspaper, and
her forefinger pointed to a heavily-typed column.
"Was this you, Abe?"
"Is it about a watchman?"
"Yes."
"It was me."
His wife threw down the newspaper with a shudder. She was a big,
angular woman, who seemed at ordinary times to be incapable of
emotion; but in the presence of her husband she was always nervous.
She obeyed him in everything to the letter, afraid of him, yet with a
hesitating admiration for him. She was afraid on her own behalf,
also, perhaps.
"One day, Abe, you'll make a mistake," she breathed.
"I can't see that day."
"The paper has a piece that says there's nearly a thousand quid in
cash--lifted!"
"That's about right."
"And that the watchman must have let the--the--burglar inside. Some
stuff has been found on the watchman. They say the police think he
may have been in on the job and then there was a quarrel about the
square-up. Is that right?"
"If that's what they say, let 'em say it."
She picked up the jimmy that lay among his tools as he had thrown
them on the floor. A red smear stained one end.
"You wash that off," he commanded, "and gimme breakfast. I'm due
somewhere by midday."
She took the satchel into the kitchenette obediently while he arose
and pulled on his clothes. He ate his breakfast rapidly, not once
glancing at his wife, who stood beside the table attending to him as
a slave serves a master. When he finished eating he got up and took
the tools from the kitchenette and put them into his coat pocket.
His wife watched him all the time, following him about with a dumb
interest that was doglike.
"Abe, I need money."
He whipped out a bundle of notes and handed over one.
"That's a fiver. Get it changed this morning. And look here, if
anybody asks where you got it, say Braid, the 'fence,' gave it you.
Get that?"
"Braid?"
"That's it, Braid. That's what you've gotter say. If nobody asks,
say nothin'. Listen here. I'm goin' to Braid now. I've got
something to sell. I'll be back maybe a bit late. Wait up for
me--and look out!"
"Abe, can't we go away somewhere--abroad, Canada, anywhere? I'm
wearin' out fast with all this waitin', waitin', waitin'. Them
cops----"
"Aw, we'll talk about that later."
"When?"
"After you've spent the fiver."
He went out by the back window and walked swiftly down the lane,
diving into an underground station. The stolen watches were strung
in his belt around his waist; the banknotes were in his pockets. He
was going to get rid of his loot until the time when he could use it
fearlessly. He knew--as had happened in the past--detectives would
visit his apartment home. They often visited his apartments, and as
often he gave account of his movements that satisfied them. He was
quite sure of his ground on this occasion, as usual.
It is a fact, known to the police after much inquiry and
investigation, that few receivers of stolen property make their
arrangements with thieves within the circles of large cities. It is
the same in New York, Chicago, Philadelphia as it is in London,
Glasgow, Liverpool. When a burglar has considerable booty to sell he
goes out of the radius of the city. It may be in the outer suburbs,
or deep in the country; but it is not, as a rule, within the
metropolitan area that he makes his rendezvous with the receiver.
The reason for these rendezvous some distance from the busy centers
is quite simple. Most goods of value have to be disposed of
immediately they are stolen; and, again, if the hue and cry is very
hot, the criminal has always a good jumping-off spot. If all goes
well he can deliver his loot, get his money, and be back in the
center of the city, or among his social haunts, before the police
have time to fix on a clue. These men always have alibis. Their
companions commit perjury habitually. The disposing of jewelry has
become an art.
Abe Lammie's destination was northwest of the city. All his
instincts revolted at the idea of traveling by bus or ordinary
overhead train. Mole-like he went underground. It was not that he
feared being arrested if he showed himself in daylight; the police
never moved so quickly as that. It was not that he regretted murder
and wished to hide from his fellow men; he had used violence
previously. The real objection he had to moving on the surface of
the earth was the key to his whole existence. The trade--or
profession--of burglar fitted him as closely as his skin. He was by
nature a subterranean mammal, a shunner of the sun.
He had no parents of whom he could say, "Here is my mother, there my
father." Of the former he had never heard or known a thing. Of the
latter all he knew was that he was a prisoner somewhere, held by his
own natural enemies, the police. His recollections did not go
farther back than the time when, as a boy, he stood alone in the dock
and was sentenced to a period of detention in a reformatory. He had
not seen his father since that day. Not that it mattered much, for
neither father nor son had any attachment for the other.
But even in these far-off days Abe Lammie escaped from the
institution. How? By digging under the walls. He had remained
underground ever since--a mole. In appearance he had a distinct
resemblance to the animal. His arms were short, his fingers were
stubby, like claws. His neck vertebræ were solidified. His chest
was wide and powerful, his legs long and muscular. He walked as if
he were swimming through earth. He made night his day and day his
night. He hated summer and liked winter. He was a bundle of
adaptations.
Starting with this resemblance between him and the creature after
which he was nicknamed, the likeness ascended in rapid stages.
Physically the similarity was positive. Socially it was comparative.
Mentally it was superlative.
He chose his place of residence as carefully as any mole ever built
his home. The path from the front gate to his door was the first
"run," over which he, or his wife, could see the advance of
strangers. The back lane, a dozen yards from his window, was his
"bolt-run." The two rooms were his "fortress." His wife was his
sentinel, his lookout, ready to give the alarm from the front room.
Under the floor boards, behind the lathing of the walls, among the
bricks at the back of the fireplace, in holes behind the skirting
boards, in every unlikely place he had often stored his loot; but
only temporarily, for the police had searched his fortress more than
once. Their failure to find evidence on which to arrest him was due
to the cunning Lammie exercised in storing the goods. He changed the
places with the ingenuity of a molewarp. When he was engaged on a
"job" he was the animal indeed--vigorous in moving, feeding,
fighting, everything.
His mind was the mind of this creature of the hedgerow to a
surprising degree. His brain was contraplex--two messages were
constantly passing in opposite directions athwart it at the same
time. The one current represented the action about to be performed,
the other concerned the hiding of that already performed. To him an
obvious thing was dangerous and a sign of foes. A straight line was
abhorrent, because he had found out that the law was represented as
the most direct route to retribution. All penal codes to him were
entirely unfair; his mind was so crooked that he believed he had a
right to steal what he could and get away with it. He did not admit
the wrong of burglary. If jewelry was not well enough protected to
keep him from taking it, the owners deserved to lose it. The law had
no right to punish him; he classified punishment as another wrong
against him. Thus the combative strain of the mole in him had
developed until it had become contumacious. And this development
only served to emphasize another trait relating to his nickname.
Having observed how the police, his natural enemies, collected
reliable witnesses, he adopted the idea, but used it as a defense
instead of an attack. He involved those who feared him and screened
himself behind them because they dared not give him away. Out of
their helplessness he erected a bulwark for himself.
The subway on which he traveled roared its way across the foundations
of the city and bore him upward toward the high ground of the
northern section. Within a few miles of its terminus it burst out of
the tunnel into the sunlight. Abe Lammie crouched in his corner,
blinking his small eyes at the brightness he hated. On each side of
the railway track new excavations were being made; brown clay was
heaped in high embankments and lay across the green valleys extending
toward the final station of the track. On the side of the hills some
distance off he noticed two black holes that had been excavated. A
steam navvy was heaving great loads of rock and rubble down a chute.
The sight stirred a memory and a slumbering sympathy in him. He kept
his eyes fixed on the excavating work until the train pulled up. He
awakened with a jerk to the knowledge that he was at his destination.
He traversed the streets of the new suburb by stages, taking every
back lane. In time he arrived at the house he sought. It was an old
manor house, a relic of a past generation, with half an acre of
thickly wooded ground surrounding it. He was ushered into a large
room barely furnished, and found himself facing a small man who
nervously twirled his hands as he greeted him.
"Well, Abe, I see by the papers----"
"I got the stuff," interrupted Abe. "There wasn't much of what you
said. Two dozen tickers. But gold."
"Show them to me."
The Mole loosened his belt and swung it clear of his body. The
receiver examined every watch.
"I'll take them. Twenty pounds the lot."
"They're worth ten times that."
"I said twenty pounds."
"All right. Hand the money over."
It was always the same. He did the work and the receivers beat him
down in price. All he ever possessed in this world he took by
cunning and by force.
"Now that you've skinned me," he said when he stowed the money away,
"I've something I want you to look after for me. It's my own
loot--not yours. I got the tickers for you. I took this for myself.
I know the exact amount----"
"I couldn't store it for you, Mole."
"You know what it is?"
"It's the banknotes, isn't it?"
"You bet. You can hold them until it blows over."
"Sorry, Abe. That's your funeral. I can melt down gold or silver, I
can't melt notes. I expect the cops know the numbers of some of
them, if not all, by this time."
The receiver twirled his hands more than ever as he saw The Mole's
brows drawn down. There was silence for a few moments. The receiver
spoke again.
"Seen the papers, Abe?"
"What do they say?"
"The watchman was found on the pavement. You laid him there, I
suppose?"
"Well?"
"One idea is that he let some one into the store. A pal, likely.
They say the watchman was an ex-convict, a lifer, who did his term
and was expected to make good. You did it smart, Abe, but I didn't
want you to kill. That was where you slipped up, Abe. It's bad to
kill. You've given others the knock-out, but not the good-by. Why
did you do it?"
"He was in the way. What's it matter? I'd do it again. What about
them notes? Are you scared to hold 'em?"
"There's the numbers, Abe, and numbers tell tales. You've been a
good boy to me, I admit, and so I'd like to do what I can for you.
You'll want to get away now that the watchman is on your
conscience----"
"I haven't got a conscience," said The Mole. "What about the notes?"
"I'll buy them, Abe, if you'll let them go cheap. I'm only doing
this to help you get away. What about a hundred pounds, cash down?"
"Huh! You get the tickers dirt cheap and then you offer me a hundred
for nearly a thousand in notes!"
"Look at the risk, Abe! This is a killing case. You'll have to get
away."
The Mole lit a cigarette and puffed slowly at it, his brows drawn
down over his dull eyes. He knew quite well that the receiver was
not concerned about his safety.
"It was you put me up to the job," he said, after a little.
"_You're_ all right. _You_ don't get pinched. _You_ don't risk
swinging. It's me that runs for it every time. I'm always on the
hop. I'm always between you and the cops--keepin' my eye on both.
And you have the nerve to offer me a mean hundred for all that pile!"
"It's all I can afford to risk, Abe. If you ain't satisfied, go and
get them changed somewhere else and see what happens!"
He snarled the words and turned away as if to wash his hands of the
proposition. The Mole laughed and the receiver turned quickly.
There was something in The Mole's laugh he did not like.
"I gave one to my wife," said The Mole.
"That's your affair, Abe. You shouldn't trust women, even wives.
They'll grab your wife, sure as a gun, and then it's all up with you.
Isn't a hundred better than--the other thing?"
"It won't be the other thing, you mean Yid! I told my wife what to
say, and she'll say it and stick to it. She was to say that you gave
her the note."
"Abe!"
"Oh, she'll say it. She does what she's told."
"Abe, you dog!"
"She knows better'n give me away. She's all right."
"Abe, you devil!"
"I've tied you both up, old yellow Yid! You and her. See?"
The receiver was livid. He trembled with rage and, but for the
knowledge that The Mole could have killed him in a struggle, he would
have thrown himself at Lammie. His anger mastered him and he threw
out a finger, shaking and accusing in the excess of his fury.
"I won't touch the notes now! I'll blow up everything! I'll deny
you gave me the watches! They'll never know that bit! I'll tell
them you have the notes! They will get you and you'll swing, Mole!"
Lammie shrugged his shoulders and threw the stub of his cigarette
into the fireplace.
"Not so fast, Yid! If the cops come for me I won't run. I'll hand
'em a speel. But they won't get a scrap of evidence to pin on me.
You've had your chance to help me out and you've refused. All right.
I know where to hide the notes. And when you are in the dock--you
and the wife--I'll lift the swag and hit the trail somewhere."
"I'll tell them you came here with it," yelled the receiver,
triumphantly.
"Huh! They'll believe me first when I say I came to ask you where
you got the note you gave my wife and why you gave it her! You and
she can argue it out before the judge!"
The receiver was staggered at the audacity of the defense this human
mole had prepared. It was feasible, cunning, as plausible as
anything the receiver could say. And The Mole's wife would back The
Mole up with her blind loyalty. It was two against one. The
receiver was caught, hemmed about by the scheme of The Mole.
The burglar laughed sardonically, lifted his empty belt, and buckled
it around his waist with deliberation. The receiver stood like a man
bewildered, not knowing which way to turn, yet watching The Mole's
movements with a strange, paralyzed stare.
He saw The Mole choose another cigarette from his case, light it, and
throw the match down. He saw him button up his coat, pull his cap
down over his forehead, and stride across the room. The bang of the
front door aroused him.
"I'll find out where he hides the notes!" he cried, swiftly. "I'll
follow him!"
A voice from the dark hall answered him as the door of the room was
flung open.
"If you follow me, Yid, I'll croak you!"
The Mole was standing in the dim passage. He had not gone out at
all. He had banged the door to make the receiver believe that he had.
The two men gazed at each other for a tense moment. Lammie was
grinning at the success of his trick.
"I wanted to see what you'd do, Yid. I expected you'd rush out to
follow me. Listen here. If you follow me a step, I'll murder you!"
The receiver collapsed into a chair, his head dropped on his chest.
He had been beaten. After a time he raised his head. The Mole was
still regarding him from the passage.
"It's all right, Abe, I won't follow you. Honest to goodness."
"I know you won't," replied The Mole, grimly.
"But, Abe, you'll make a mistake. You work too much alone, Abe. All
them that work alone make a mistake one day."
In spite of himself The Mole started. The words were those his wife
had used. But he tossed his head defiantly.
"It's you that has made a mistake, Yid. And my wife, too. She made
a mistake. I haven't any use for either of you."
The words revealed the depths of his scheme. Abe Lammie had no
compunction about involving his wife in the toils he had cast around
the receiver. He was sacrificing her as he was prepared to sacrifice
anyone, in order to cover his own trail. The sexes of moles build
separate fortresses.
The door banged once more. This time The Mole had really gone.
It was gray evening when he arrived in the main street of the suburb.
He had a meal in a mean restaurant. He heard the newsboys call the
evening's news, the news of the murder and burglary. He did not buy
a newspaper because he could not read much. But, having finished his
meal, he set out on the next stage of his plan.
He bought a ball of cord, and at a green grocery stall he persuaded
the proprietor to sell an empty potato sack. Then he strolled toward
the outskirts of the suburb. It was dark now. He passed out toward
the meadows. He sat down by a hedge and parceled up his booty.
He tied the bundles of notes together, adding the notes he had
received from the "fence" for the watches. He put the loose silver,
which was in a canvas bag, on top of the notes, but retained
sufficient for his immediate wants. With his tools he dug a hole and
put the tools, wrapped in the case, into the hole and covered it up,
marking the spot by a tree and putting a large stone on the top.
With the notes and silver tied up in his sack he rose to his feet and
struck across the country, his bundle under his arm.
He went straight to the excavations he had noted from the train when
he arrived at the suburb. He descended the embankment of loose
rubble and rock and took a pickax, which he carried toward a large
tree well away from the diggings. He dug another hole at the tree
roots and buried his money, marking the tree so that he would know it
again. Then he returned the pickax and in time reached the high-road.
He went back to see if the receiver was still at home. There was a
light in the room where he had interviewed the receiver, but The Mole
wanted to make sure. He threw a pebble against the window. The
receiver's head appeared as the blind was drawn aside. The Mole
dropped down among the shrubbery, and when the receiver's head was
withdrawn The Mole moved away, grinning to himself. The receiver was
where Lammie wanted him to be.
The Mole then went home. He was perfectly content. His plans had
worked without a hitch.
There was an arrangement with his wife that she manipulated the blind
of their front room as a signal to him when he was returning home.
If the blind was halfway down, cutting equally across the upper and
lower sashes of the window, it meant that the police were waiting
inside to interview him. The police often called on The Mole after a
burglary. He had been in prison several times. Now, however, he had
his defenses so well set that he was without any anxiety. He acted
characteristically, banging the gate as he entered the front garden,
and walking into the front room boldly enough.
He whistled softly to himself as he entered the room. Two men were
sitting behind the door; his wife was by the fire. Her eyes
fluttered toward her husband.
"From the Yard," she said, with a movement of her hand toward the
visitors. "They want a word with you, Abe. I've told 'em you've
been on the straight. Lookin' for a job of work, I told them, which
you can prove."
"You bet," said The Mole.
He turned toward the men, who had risen to their feet.
"I'm glad you come. I want a word with you about a fiver that a Yid
give my wife. I've warned her about that fiver and I was up seein'
the Yid now. If he's been using her to pass stuff----"
"We did come about money," said one of the men.
"Expected it. Huh."
The Mole took a cigarette and lit it in a matter-of-fact way. It was
just as he had thought. His wife would be taken, not himself.
"But there is something else, Lammie," went on the man. "I have a
warrant for your arrest. There is another charge against you."
"Come off it," laughed The Mole. "I hadn't anything to do with that
fiver. My wife will tell you who gave it to her. What's the other
charge, anyway?"
"The watchman of a store has been murdered, Lammie. Fingerprints
were found on a showcase that was upset. You forgot to wear gloves
before you pushed it over. But the main charge is not burglary.
That watchman was an ex-convict who had been in his job only a few
weeks. We have identified him all right. The charge against you is
parricide."
"What's that?" asked The Mole, hoarsely.
"A parricide," explained the officer as he put the handcuffs on the
unresisting Mole, "is a man who murders his own father."
The judge paused for an impressive moment, then stretched out his
hand toward one of the two glasses on the table before the waiter.
To his astonishment and chagrin, the waiter raised a remonstrating
finger.