Chapter VIII: Part 8

The man in the shirt-sleeves was standing on the threshold, startled and hesitating. The sight of a masked burglar had, for the moment, unnerved him.

"Put out that light!"

This time Billiter's revolver was raised. The man obeyed instinctively, without a word; and as the light was extinguished another bored a small circle through the darkness and fell on the figure by the door. This second light came from an electric torch which Billiter held in his left hand.

"What are you doing here?" demanded the man at the door. "This studio----"

"Cut that out! Step over here and I won't harm you!"

Billiter jerked his torch in the direction he wished the man to walk; but just then the other seemed to overcome his surprise and fright. He stooped, and raised the first thing that came to his hand and threw it with all his force at the gleaming torch. What he threw was inoffensive enough. It was a cushion taken from a chair near the door; but it caught Billiter full in the face, making him drop his torch and bringing an oath to his lips.

"Don't move!" he cried swiftly. "If you make a step I'll shoot!"

The warning halted the man by the door. He did not see, in the gloom, that his missile had torn the mask from Billiter's face just then; but he saw it a moment later, when Billiter stooped to regain his torch, the light of which, as he lifted it, suddenly flashed across his features.

"Stand away from that door!" roared Billiter harshly.

As he spoke he threw the torchlight full on the man once more, jerking it commandingly. He did not want to shoot, angry though he was. He knew the consequences of shooting, and he shrank from murder; besides, the noise of the shot might disturb others. Billiter was playing his game of bluff, of menace, confidently. He saw, by the changing expression on the man's face, that his mind was a prey to swift and changing emotions and ideas. But Billiter held the winning hand. If it came to a fight, he could always shoot; but he would shoot only to frighten.

The man moved hesitatingly from the doorway. Billiter took a step towards it. It was like a game of draughts, each man taking a step, cat-like, watching his opponent, the one gliding towards the interior of the apartment, the other towards the exit.

Suddenly the man seemed to lose his nerve, and ran forward to hide behind the heavy piece of furniture which was placed, easel-like, under the hanging arc lamp, and was covered by a dust sheet. Billiter knew then that he had won. The man was scared stiff. But a scared man may be dangerous, and as Billiter threw his torchlight on the spot he saw the man's hand go up as if to reach the pear-switch. Billiter aimed and fired at the hand.

There was a smash of glass, a cry as one of the bottles on a distant shelf crashed down, and then a blinding flash filled the room. The glare made Billiter's eyes sting. He could no longer see things, but he dashed for the door, switching out his torch. He reached the door and closed it at his heels, and turned the key in the lock. Then he stood blinking in the darkness of the landing.

"Some of his blinking chemicals," he muttered. "I hit his hand too. That will be a lesson to him not to try tricks. One thing, he never saw me properly, so he can't identify me."

He went down the stairs, confident still, his eyes a little misty, but they soon cleared and he was able to see normally. He no longer feared pursuit, since he had locked the door behind him. He reached the ground floor, put his mask in his pocket, and went out.

A few minutes later he was in the Strand, one of the crowd that was moving along. He was safe. All he had to do now was to present an alibi with which to face the police.

He knew they would make inquiries. He knew Carney would come to see him, as he always came. The same old things would be said, the same old questions asked and answered. He had begun to laugh at the suspicions the police had of him. He had grown used to being suspected. But suspicion is one thing and evidence is another. He never gave them evidence.

In this case he had worked with his usual caution and luck. He reflected, as he walked along, that he had just fired the shot in time. The intruder had hoped to throw his big light on him; perhaps he had intended to attack as soon as the studio was lit up. The shot had prevented this, as it had also prevented any chance of his own identity being discovered.

It had taken Billiter some time to work out this burglary. First he had observed the position of the store. He had never dreamed of entering it by its own doorways. He had observed the premises on either side. One was a small teashop of the kind that provides light suppers and quick lunches. It remained open until after the theatres closed, so that entrance could not possibly be made that way.

Billiter found his means on the other side of the store. Next door to the jeweller's was a sweet-shop, with offices above. Next the sweet-shop was an outfitter's, occupying two floors. The third floor was used as a photographic studio--one of the kind where passport portraits are turned out in a hurry. Because this studio was erected on a flat roof Billiter chose it as his line of advance.

He had visited the place to get information, as he pretended, about prices; but as he held the assistant in conversation his eyes were on the flat roof beyond the glass studio. He found out when the premises closed at night. Then he made his raid.

The appearance of the photographer just when Billiter was making his escape was but one of the incidents that could not have been foreseen, a risk that had always to be taken; and it was because he was aware of such unexpected possibilities that Billiter carried his revolver. Without it he would have no advantage over an antagonist--a fatal condition for one whose great problem was always escape.

Billiter did not loiter in the Strand. He mounted a bus at Aldwych and rode on the top eastwards. Just beyond the limits of the City proper he got off, and hurried to the destination where he desired to dispose of his loot--the house of a receiver of stolen property. A price was offered and accepted, and Billiter received the hard cash he wanted. He knew that in a few hours the jewellery would be dissected, the gold would be in the melting-pot, and all traces would have vanished.

Having thus dealt with the proceeds of the robbery, the next step was to provide an alibi with which to face the police, and especially Carney, the man-hunter whom Billiter hated (and perhaps feared a little too) more than any other. You see, Carney, if not brilliant, was dogged. He had looked up Billiter's career, and knew his descent, step by step. That descent was curious, for not only had Billiter adopted the manner of criminals; he had adopted the speech of the ordinary East End crook, whose mentality he despised and whose habits he loathed. Indeed, it appeared that he was not only at war with Society, but was also annoyed at his own failings and weaknesses.

In the present instance he had taken Carney into his calculations as usual, and had made provision for the detective's moves. He found everything set as he anticipated when he reached home, which he entered just before midnight. His wife was preparing a late supper, and in the mean sitting-room were several acquaintances. They greeted his arrival with eagerness.

"Everything all right?" asked his wife, a heavy-featured woman who had once been pretty.

"Yes. What was the show like?"

"Fair. We're newly home. Supper's ready."

As they ate the meal, Billiter handed money to each. It was their pay, for they worked to his plans, ready to swear an alibi when asked.

When his guests had gone, Billiter hid his tools and most of the money under the floorboards. His wife watched him curiously.

"Sure everything's right, Joe?"

"What's frightening you?"

"Carney. The last time he was here he said he'd get you. He said you'd make a mistake some time."

"Aw, Carney couldn't get me, nor anybody else, with the defence I've raised. Ain't we able to put forward plenty of witnesses? He wasn't on duty last night. I know his hours. Give me that half-ticket of the show."

She handed over the torn portion of the entrance ticket to the theatre, which she had retained. He put it into his waistcoat pocket.

"Ain't that proof?" he grinned. "Carney can't get over that. I'm going to bed. If he comes at all, he won't come before morning."

His knowledge of police routine was sound; they had just finished breakfast, and Billiter was reading a newspaper, when a knock sounded on the door. Joseph glanced at his wife knowingly.

"Let him in. I'll bet it's Carney."

It was Carney, and with him was another man in plain clothes. They entered quietly, and Carney sat down on a chair facing Billiter.

"There was a burglary in the Strand last night," he announced quietly.

"I was just beginning to read about it in the paper," answered Billiter, glowering. "Go on, get the questions over. I know you've come to try to pin it on me."

"It looks like your work, Billiter."

"Aw, you've said that before about other things. It makes me tired. I suppose the cop on the beat saw a man, and you jumped to it that it was me, same as you have done before? And then I've to show you that it couldn't have been me. You've got a down on me, Carney, that's what."

"The burglar last night got away with a lot of stuff," went on Carney, taking no notice of the indignation of Billiter. "He entered a jewellery store by crawling along the roof. As for the policeman on the beat, he didn't see anybody. But the burglar got clear away after shooting at a man who tried to stop him."

"Humph!"

Billiter was as cool as usual. He suppressed a smile. He had asked the question about the policeman on the beat as a feeler; he wanted to make sure if he had really been seen, or if he himself had guessed right in regard to the figure under the window in the yard. The answer relieved him immensely. He now knew that the figure under the window must have been that of the worker coming up to the studio.

He folded the newspaper on his knees and faced Carney.

"Well? Spit it out. You've been after me long enough."

"I've always hoped to get you--you and your friends."

"Keep on hoping, then."

It was a jeer, but they knew each other well enough to dispense with formalities. The duel had begun again.

Carney was a big man, heavy and rotund--a contrast to Billiter, who was wiry and agile. The detective seemed too deliberate for Billiter. He was on edge to get Carney away; he wanted to hurry the examination.

"Have you come to prove that I did it?" he demanded.

"Can you prove that you didn't?"

"You bet. I'll give you an alibi that'll satisfy any magistrate."

"In that case you will be able to tell me where you were between the hours of nine and eleven last evening. I'd like a statement."

He made a motion to the plain-clothes man beside him, and the latter prepared to write in his note-book. Billiter felt amused. He had seen the same performance on previous occasions. It was always the same--questions and answers, then inquiries to prove the statements, and after that nothing happened. This time Billiter did not wait for the questions. He brought the torn theatre ticket from his waistcoat pocket and threw it on the table.

"That'll tell you where I was."

Carney looked at the ticket, examining it thoughtfully.

"You were at this theatre?"

"That's what I'm telling you. Some friends were with me. I'll give you their names, if you like."

"We'll take them down right away."

The plain-clothes man wrote the names and addresses down as Billiter gave them. The latter's wife stood behind the writer, biting her lip as she watched his pencil glide across the paper. Carney looked up and caught her eye.

"Were you with your husband at the theatre?" he asked.

"Yes," she snapped.

Carney rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then turned to his colleague.

"Better go along to these people right away and take their statements and signatures. Mrs. Billiter will go with you to direct you. And notify them to come to the station before midday."

"Going to question them there?" snarled Billiter bitterly. "Maybe you'll want their finger-prints too. You officials give me a pain."

He pulled out his pipe and began to fill it from a tobacco-jar held between his knees. His wife and the plain-clothes officer departed as he was striking a match. The first puff of smoke had just escaped Billiter's lips when Carney rose to his feet.

"And now," he said, "I think you'd better be coming along."

"Where to?"

"The station."

"Same old routine, Carney. I know all about it. I go there, and you write out a long rigmarole, and I sign. And then I walk out until the next time you get a hunch----"

"Not this time, Billiter. You won't walk out this time."

Billiter threw his match down with a gesture of protest.

"You can't detain me," he cried. "You haven't got a charge, and I've given you a perfect alibi."

"The alibi doesn't work on this occasion, Billiter. It is too perfect. Listen to me. The photographer's assistant who came back to the studio to develop some prints has given us a statement. The burglar tried to keep the studio in darkness so as to escape, but as he was making for the door he passed the screen usually used for portraits, and the assistant reached for the hanging switch that controls the camera."

"Well?" cried Billiter.

"The result was that a flashlight picture of the room was taken, and we have a portrait of the burglar with his mask down about his neck. Here it is."

He threw on the table a large print, in which Joseph Billiter was shown in the very act of firing his revolver.

"As for the alibi your friends helped you to make up," went on Carney, "I expected that defence, as usual, from you, but I'll rope them in on a charge of making false declarations. Now will you come quietly?"

"I'll come," said Billiter hoarsely. "You've got me at last, Carney."

And Carney marched him off.

* * * * *

The Governor paused, and glanced at his visitor.

"I daresay," he remarked, "you have noticed how events of importance sometimes have a way of treading on each other's heels, so to speak. It was while he was making arrangements at the police station for the disposal of Joseph Billiter that Carney came into touch with the last case that interested the celebrated Dr. Caffyn, criminologist and pathologist. It was he who had so often advanced his theory of a cure for murder----"

"A cure?" interrupted the visitor.

"That is what Dr. Caffyn called it. A case had just cropped up that enabled him to apply his tests finally in front of Carney, who, as you know, was opposed to theories. It was a curious case, and baffled investigators greatly."

"Did Dr. Caffyn find a cure?" asked the visitor scornfully.

"The best way to answer that question is to show you how Dr. Caffyn arrived at the answer; and this I intend to do right away."

THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE THIRTEENTH CELL

Having refreshed himself from the glass at his elbow, the Governor then began the story of the occupant of the thirteenth cell, while his visitor, beyond a glance at the clock, made no attempt to interrupt. The fact was that the visitor found this eccentric prison official very entertaining.

* * * * *

There is no doubt (said the Governor) that, of all crimes, murder is at once the most interesting and the most repellent. On the average we have about one hundred and fifty every year in Britain, and, though this may seem a large number, it is small compared with the record of some American cities--Chicago, for instance--where the average is about one per day. We are also in the happier position, if you will allow me to say so--I speak from the point of view of a representative of the law--of having a much smaller number of murders unsolved. Indeed, there are very few in Britain that have not been brought home to the culprits----

"I could name a few," cried the visitor triumphantly. "Since the year 1912 there has been a growing list of undiscovered killers, and most of them were killers of women. Take the case, in 1919, of Mrs. Ridgley, of Hitchin; of Miss Nellie Rault, at Bedford, a few months later; of Nurse Shore in a Hastings train the following year; of Mrs. Buxton, at Chelsea, shortly afterwards; of Henrietta Weightman, at Bushey, in 1921; of Miss Lawn, at Cambridge, and Violet Mansfield, at Farnham, both the same year; and there are others--Mrs. Luard, at Sevenoaks; Emily Dimmock at Camden Town, Lily Templeton at Brixton, a child named Bailes at the Elephant and Castle, the boy Willie Starchfield. There's a list to go on with."

I realise (replied the Governor) that you have taken great interest in those crimes to have them so glibly on your tongue, but it may be that there were exceptional circumstances at work in those instances which you do not take into account. I do not claim that the police, and the law, are always flawless and that they are without failure. But what have you proved? That out of, say one hundred and fifty, one person has succeeded in escaping. I think you have even here over-estimated the chances of escape, slender though they are on your own showing; but if I were to give you proof of this I might incur the penalty of infringing the Act which binds Governors, as well as the humblest of prison staffs, to secrecy in certain matters. I am not saying that such an Act is good, or that it is bad. I am a servant and carry out my orders.

As for those who have escaped, I could mention a dozen for your one of those who, by all the laws of chance and calculation, ought to have escaped, but did not. The man Bennett, who murdered his wife on Yarmouth sands a score or so years ago, was convicted because of a gold chain which he gave away to a girl in a moment of forgetfulness. Bodart, the Frenchman, who murdered a widow, was discovered because of the grease spot on his clothes, the dripping of a candle. The finding of a few brads was the cause of the conviction of a boot repairer named Lafargue, who murdered Madame du Bois. The famous Professor Webster was sent to the scaffold because he forgot that, while he might burn to ashes the body of his victim, Dr. Parkman, the latter's false teeth were made of a composition that resisted fire. Wainwright made a similar mistake when he tried to destroy traces of a murder by covering the body with chloride of lime, which preserves and does not destroy. The man who shot Mrs. Breaks at Blackpool had filed off the maker's name from the outside plate of the revolver, but did not know that the name was also printed on the backbone inside. A child's claim to the ownership of a toy lantern was the cause of Fowler being hanged for the Muswell Hill crime. In Buckinghamshire a cobweb on a man's shoulder took him to the condemned cell.

And what shall we say of those would-be assassins who, though they have thought out their schemes, have either erred at the crucial moment, or have been caught by a simple, unforeseen circumstance? I could tell you of cases wherein it might seem that the intended victims have a charm against violent deaths. The present King of Spain, who has come to London quite often, has a private collection of relics of incidents where he was saved from the assassin's murderous intent. Many monarchs have likewise escaped. Only recently we have had the most prominent man of Italy telling his friends, after an attempt on his life, that it was useless for enemies to try to kill him. What a faith!

All this, of course, leads us back to the primary question: Why do men commit murder? It was this question that Dr. Caffyn had considered for many years. As a matter of fact, Dr. Caffyn was writing a treatise on the subject when the ringing of his telephone bell interrupted his labours. Detective Carney was at the other end of the wire, telling him that a murder had been committed.

Dr. Caffyn was a man of method, not one to be easily thrown from his well-trained habits; and he was training his only son, Dick, to walk in his own footsteps. Both father and son were fine specimens of men; both were surgeons, both were pathologists, but the son was sufficiently independent not to accept every theory put forward by the parent without himself being convinced of its accuracy.

It was because he wished to put his theories to the test in front of his son that Dr. Caffyn was regretful that Richard was not present when the telephone message informed him of this new case.

The first thing that Dr. Caffyn did after having received the message was to sit down again at his desk and add a few sentences to the treatise he was writing. The sentences seemed to be singularly appropriate. Here are the sentences which the doctor wrote on that occasion:

"The answer to the question, why a man commits a murder, is to be found in the state of the man's mind. To understand this mental state we must analyse the mind's material counterpart--the brain. The problem becomes pathological. The lower forms of life are governed by instinct and rude emotion where self-control is practically absent. Self-control is gained by education."

There Dr. Caffyn stopped. He then pressed an electric button on his desk and waited. The door of his study opened, and his man appeared on the threshold.

"Jones, has Mr. Richard arrived yet?"

"No, sir," replied the man, "but he is expected any minute for dinner."

"I shall not be able to see him at dinner," said Dr. Caffyn, "but when he comes tell him that I hope to join him at the theatre. I am leaving a ticket for him in case I do not come back. There has been a murder and I am called away. You needn't wait up for us. We shall have supper in town. See that we are awakened early to-morrow, and that his things are packed. He is going to lecture at college to-morrow."

The man bowed and withdrew.

Dr. Caffyn fingered his watch-chain absently, his brows contracted. He had hoped to work much longer at the manuscript in development of his views on murder and the question of capital punishment. But he had to go where duty called, and in a few minutes he was walking rapidly along the street.

Let me here point out that Dr. Caffyn had held for many years the position of perhaps the most famous pathologist in London. His knowledge was so great that he was retained by the authorities to aid them with his evidence. He had for years been on practically every kind of murder case as soon as the police. He had been called to examine murderers as well as their victims. At the trials his voice was the voice of authority. He was as steeped in the science of psychology in relation to crime as he was steeped in the pathological knowledge of it. To those who advocated the abolition of the death sentence Dr. Caffyn was an opponent whose scientific reasoning could not be answered.

He was thinking of his manuscript when he reached the block of flats where this latest murder had been committed. It was a fashionable district, such as are becoming more and more common in London--blocks of flats with silent lifts to every floor and stairs carpeted with rich material. A policeman at the door saluted as Dr. Caffyn presented himself. He directed Dr. Caffyn to the flat where he was expected.

The victim was a woman. She lay on her settee, her head thrown back and her rounded arms stretched limply over the upholstery. She had been a very pretty girl; was, indeed, still beautiful even in death. Her age was about twenty-five or twenty-six. A bullet had caught her square in the forehead.

The weapon from which the bullet had been fired was in the hands of Carney, who stood on the other side of the settee. He was examining the revolver, which was one of service pattern.

Dr. Caffyn returned the greeting of Detective Carney with a curt nod. He was more interested in the dead woman than in the weapon with which she had been killed. A few drops of red stained her golden shaded semi-evening gown, turning the colour of the fabric to a strange and fascinating hue. Beyond a smear of blood half hidden by her wealth of bobbed hair there was nothing to mar her beauty. She had bled inwardly and had died at once.

"We thought it was suicide at first, sir," said Carney, "but the finding of this revolver on the rug and a man's glove puts that out of court. It's murder."

Dr. Caffyn nodded and slipped his sensitive fingers along the wrist of the dead woman. It was merely a formal matter. Her pulse had stopped when the bullet cut short her young life.

"She has been dead for about an hour," said the doctor quietly. "Yes, it is murder. The shot was fired from the chair on the other side of the fireplace."

There were no signs of a struggle, no agonising contortions of the victim's features. Her eyes were open, almost wide. The blue pupils were slightly turned upward, and seemed to express mild surprise. There was a hint of a smile on the well-moulded features. Her lips were parted, showing heavy traces of lipstick. Her teeth were white and dazzling. There were rings on her fingers. On her feet were a pair of small, green slippers, half buried in a thick woollen rug in front of the gas fire, which was burning.

There she lay, retaining her attractiveness, her pose suggesting the audacity and daring which even death could not subdue.

"Who was she?" asked Dr. Caffyn.

"An actress--a chorus girl. Gladys Crieff," replied Carney. "She lived in this flat with a maid. She was due at the theatre this evening. It was the maid who gave the alarm."

Carney gave his replies shortly because he did not want the specialist to begin theorising. He wanted to get on with the hunt for the criminal. He distrusted the intricacies of psychology and the conclusions of pathology. He got his men by team work, by inquiry, by elimination; which was the recognised method of the police.

"It is a _crime passionnel_, some love affair that has ended disastrously, I suspect," said the doctor. "I fancy you will find it so, Carney."

The officer was a little nettled at the swift conclusion.

"I'm not sure of that, sir. It may be that burglary is the cause. Of course, this girl could not afford to keep up a flat on her own. Chorus girls can't. But she was not an ordinary chorus girl. She had played parts, and was waiting to get a leading one in a new show."

"You know her, then?"

"Oh, no. The maid told me, and I verified it on the telephone. Of course, I didn't spill the news that she was dead. Then there is something else. The maid says that this girl had a very expensive necklace and was intending to wear it to-night at the theatre. The case is here, but the necklace has gone. And I found a small gold watch on the staircase, which the murderer must have dropped on his way down. Further, a locket which she had round her neck lay on the settee beside her. The chain was broken as if it had been snatched from her. A tiny fragment of a photograph remained in the locket."

"Then you have nothing very substantial as a clue?"

"Oh, we'll manage on what we have, Dr. Caffyn. The maid, whom I have questioned, is a new one, and did not see the visitor--she was out shopping; but she says that when she returned she heard voices in the room, one of them being a man's. The maid had to go out again, but before she went out she listened, as maids do. She heard the man say that this dead girl would never belong to anyone but him. And this dead girl seemed to be soothing his temper."

"Then the maid did not see the man?"

"No, she had to go out again. When she came back the door was open and she saw--this. I examined the stairs and found a glove. The man left that. It is a rubber glove. There isn't a finger-print anywhere."

"What about the revolver, Carney?"

"A common service one. No prints on it."

Dr. Caffyn was silent for a moment, looking at the dead woman. Her beauty was not the beauty of an intellectual woman. It was the beauty of physique.

"Had she many friends, Carney?"

"You mean men? They generally have. She was to be married soon, I know that. If she had other friends I'll soon round them up."

"Not a vampire, then?"

"Most likely a butterfly, sir."

Dr. Caffyn looked at his watch and began to button his coat.

"When you find the murderer, Carney, I should like to see him as well, for observation. There are points of similarity in all murders which I have noticed. This man, I suspect, is some poor, unbalanced individual whose brain has been overturned by a flood of jealousy. That is, if he was the girl's friend. If he was a common burglar, he must also be a degenerate. Only such an one would kill a woman. A hidden hereditary instinct suddenly flashed out, and he shot her. Lack of self-control. Lack of the necessary education. Don't you think so?"

"I don't worry about that. He shot her, and I have to get him. To my thinking, education has little to do with murder."

Dr. Caffyn raised his head and gazed piercingly at the detective who had dared to challenge his theories.

"Ah," he said, "I fancy you will agree with me later, Carney. In the meantime, if you have completed your examination, the body may be removed. I shall attend the mortuary later and let you have my report to-night."

"Very good, doctor."

Dr. Caffyn went out.

It was too late to return to his home for dinner and too early to go to the theatre, so he decided to dine at his club.

He dined alone, as was his custom at the club. He had a favourite seat by the window, and there he sat apart thinking over the crime. It seemed to prove to him once again that there was a cure for murder, just as there was a penalty for it.

So absorbed was he in his reflections that he sat longer than he intended; but he decided to go and see one act of the play before returning to the mortuary and making the examination so that his report would be accurate. A great deal depended on his report. The counsel for the accused would scrutinise his wording, searching for a loose expression or a hesitating phrase. He would be in the witness-box to be questioned and to explain the nature and cause of death. From the witness-box he would see the prisoner in the dock.

Dr. Caffyn smiled grimly as he thought of this. It was interesting to him to note the expressions on the faces of prisoners while he gave his medical testimony. He watched their varying emotions, the functioning of their brains, as he destroyed the hypotheses which the defending counsel laboured to erect. As a scientist, Dr. Caffyn was never embarrassed by the frightfulness of crime. His interest was in studying the men who had committed the crimes. He studied them in their cells, from his stand in the witness-box, when they waited for the verdict; and he had given certificates of their deaths when they had paid the penalty.

A taxicab drove him quickly to the theatre, where he met his son Richard. It was in the middle of an act when he arrived, but he did not hesitate to make his way to the empty stall. He and Richard nodded to each other, and then they turned to watch the play.

Richard Caffyn was one of the rising young surgeons of the day, heading straight for a fame, as his colleagues agreed, that would make history in his profession. But, then, he had his father at his back, a father who was very proud of his son.

When the curtain fell at the end of the act they sauntered out to the corridor to enjoy cigarettes. They had reached the doorway when a voice spoke at the father's elbow.

"Sorry to bother you, doctor, but have you finished the examination?"

Dr. Caffyn turned to see Carney at his side.

"Not yet, Carney, but I'll give you the report to-night. I want you to meet my son Richard. I think you have heard of him."

Carney shook hands with the young man, and they continued towards the bar. They sat down on a couch facing the counter.

"Found your degenerate yet, Carney?" asked Dr. Caffyn.

"Not yet, sir, but I'm hoping."

The doctor turned to his son and explained the case in a few sentences.

"Do you know, Dick," he said smilingly, "Carney is too polite to say he doesn't agree with me, but I know he holds antagonistic theories to mine generally. But that, I fancy, comes of the discipline and routine of police methods. I was telling him that undoubtedly all murderers are degenerates. Look here, Carney, when you are hunting a man, one of the best rules is to get at what makes him a criminal--for the time being, of course."

"Well, sir," replied Carney, "I have had some experience in hunting men, and I find all sorts of things make them bad; especially murderers. Fear, hate, love, lust, selfishness, greed--these are some, but there are others."

"I agree, and yet I have a notion that a cure for murder may be found."

"A cure?"

"Yes, a cure. Dick, my boy, you know my theories. Now, take this murder to-night. I told Jones to tell you why I had been called away----"

"He told me," replied Dick, who was looking absently towards the bar and listening to the orchestra. "Have you been trying to convert Carney to your point of view?"

"I have, but it takes some doing. Let us go into it again, Carney. The reasons you have named are but the forces that convert the thought of murder into the act. We must get behind that. The murder-plan has its origin in pathology in most cases. In a few one finds it in psychology."

"We do not deal in these sciences when we are after a man," said Carney doggedly.

"Perhaps not. You represent the material side. I represent the other. Yet it is material in the end. The mind governs the brain. We have two brains, an upper and a lower. The upper functions in thought. The lower functions in emotions and instincts which require no thought. This lower brain is in every animal that has a skull. It is this brain which functions when men commit murder. Civilisation has developed the upper brain; and murderers are men whose upper brain is primitive. That is what I mean by a degenerate."

"Does it matter much?" asked Carney.

"It matters a great deal. It supplies the key to the great mystery as to why men commit murder."

"How about your cure?"

"Ah, the cure. It is pathological."

The bell above the bar buzzed, signalling that the curtain was about to rise again, but the three men did not take notice of it.

"I'm not sure, father," said Richard Caffyn, "that I don't find sound sense in what Detective Carney says. Pathology can only apply to habitual criminals. Spasmodic acts are outside rules."

The detective glanced at Dick and nodded.

"My job is to get my man," he persisted. "I don't think we shall ever find a cure for murder, with all respect to your father's knowledge."

"Tut, tut," cried Dr. Caffyn. "There you are again, ignoring all I desire you to observe! Pathology is the science of the nature, cause, and remedy of disease. Murder is disease. It is degeneracy. The causes of degeneracy are several--among which are debauchery, depravity, poverty."

"Murderers are not always poor men," said the detective.

"No, but they are always degenerates. They have reverted to the primitive type. The animalism of their forebears clings to them. Dick, you and I have talked this over----"

"That is true, father, but still there is a lot in what the detective says. I cannot always agree with you, as you know. Let me put it this way."

He turned and spread out his hand as if he were delivering a lecture at his hospital.

"There are such things as uncontrollable impulses. Take the case of a mother who sacrifices herself to save her child. She does not think. It is her lower brain that is working--her instinct. She is not responsible, really, for the act, yet she is heroic----"

"But, Dick----"

"Wait a moment, father. I am trying to show that there is a force, or forces, against which we cannot fight. Pathology does not enter here. Psychology may. In any case, the law does not take much note of either, as Carney says. I could put up a good case for impulsive acts arising from instinctive and automatic feelings. Is a man responsible when urged to act under a wave of extreme emotion?"

"The law says," replied Carney, "that acts are irresponsible only when a person does not know the nature or quality of those acts."

"In that case, the best plan would be for a defence to put forward a suggestion of insanity. The truth is we are hard put to it to define responsibility. It is a tangle of conflicting emotions."

He yawned and strolled towards the bar to get a match for his cigarette.

"Dick will come round to my view after he has had experience," said the doctor to Carney, "and so will you. At present he does not distinguish between compulsive acts and obsessions, which are two different terms. They do not affect the result, however. Heredity--there you find the reason for most cases of degeneration. If we admit such arguments as my son has put forward we might as well abolish the death penalty."

"As for me," retorted Carney, "I have seen cases where the death penalty might have been better set aside--and I say that though I brought such men to the cells."

"There may be cases of persons who are utterly insane--raving lunatics--but for the others of man-kind the one law must remain. Society must be protected. I commend these views to you in the course of your labours--for instance, in the case of this girl who was shot this evening."

Detective Carney was silent for a few moments.

"What was your cure, doctor?" he asked quietly.

"My cure for murder lies in the future generations. If a man commits a murder there is no proof that he may not commit another. There is only one way to deal with him. He must be removed--painlessly if you like, but effectively."

The detective did not answer, and seemed to be pondering the standpoint of the specialist. The doctor went on.

"If we remove evil environment and substitute education for ignorance we shall have no more murders. That is a pathological fact, and when you have found your man in this case----"

"We'll find him, sir."

"Very well. When the trial comes off I shall certainly use all my influence to oppose the torrent of sympathy which seems to go out at every recent case towards the criminal in this country. Think of the dead girl! Is it safe for the community that a man who deliberately took her life should live? Is it wise that he should be kept alive?"

"Well, there may be the plea of insanity----"

"Bah, that has become a common plea! Murder by a proved maniac is an exception to the general rule. You know that as well as I do. The only safe cure for murder is to send the guilty into oblivion and educate the community."

Detective Carney got to his feet, gnawing at his moustache. He had spent more time than he had expected.

"Are you going to remain until the play is over, sir?" he asked.

"Oh, that report!"

"I really wanted to suggest, sir, that if you could let us have it immediately we should be obliged. I could get a taxi for you, right away. I was asked to see you about it and to suggest----"

Dr. Caffyn sighed and nodded. He was a slave to duty.

"Very well. I'll have the taxi. Shall I dismiss it at the mortuary?"

"Why, sir, you could just keep it and bring your report to the station, where it is expected. I may be there when you arrive, as I have a call to make on this case."

"All right, I'll tell my son."

He went out with Carney, and the latter obtained a cab and sent the doctor off. As he rode to the mortuary, the doctor wondered if he had been wasting his breath on Carney; he was, at least, sure that the detective did not fully appreciate all he had been saying.

The examination of the victim at the mortuary was not lengthy. When it was over Dr. Caffyn made his notes and ordered the driver to hurry to the police station.

As he entered the reception-room, he saw Detective Carney standing with his back to the fire. A frown was on Carney's face.

"There is the report, Carney," said the doctor. "What are you worried about? Have you been thinking over what I told you, or have you failed to get your man?"

"We have got him, sir," replied Carney, coughing.

"Got him? Congratulations. A degenerate, I'll wager, as I said. May I have a look at him--just a look, or a word, maybe, to support my theory? You promised."

The detective nodded and led the way to the cells. As he was about to put the key into a door, the surgeon touched him on the shoulder.

"A _crime passionnel_--and a primitive brain, I suppose? Or perhaps a burglar of the base type?"

"He has written a confession," said Carney, without looking at the doctor. "He shot her because she threw him over for another man."

He swung the door open. The prisoner, his face buried in his hands, was huddled in a corner of the cell.

He raised a haggard countenance to the visitors.

Dr. Caffyn looked into the face of his son.

THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE FOURTEENTH CELL

The visitor looked at the clock once more.

"Don't you think," he said in a grave tone, "that in the recital of these stories, which I confess are full of interest and are the best I have ever heard, you are losing sight of the reason of my presence?"

"Not at all. I have kept that constantly before me, I assure you," smiled the Governor. "But to a man in my position the great matter is to cram into the limited time at his disposal as much of the work he most desires done before----"

He stopped, and the visitor interpreted the wave of hand which the Governor made.

"I understand," said the visitor. "To tell the truth, I shall not relish the business of killing you, but if you leave me no alternative, what can I do? I merely point out that time is slipping past rapidly. It is now some time after dawn--a while after, in fact. The limit I set you is within measurable distance."

"Alas," said the Governor, "how true it is that time waits for no man! Let me repeat that I had for my object the desire to prove to you that criminals make mistakes in practically all cases. I have shown you how, in a selection of the most carefully planned and deliberately executed crimes, the unforeseen something gave the law-breakers away. But did you notice, in the case of the story I have just ended, that there is one point left in the air, so to speak--one item unexplained?"

"I fancy I did. You mentioned that a necklace was missing from that chorus girl's flat. You did not say if young Caffyn had taken it. I thought it must have been one of his presents."

The Governor shook his head.

"I have the greatest pleasure in congratulating you on your observance," he said pleasantly. "The item I was compelled to leave unexplained was the disappearance of the necklace. Richard Caffyn did not take it, and the police hunted high and low for it. As a matter of fact, it had been stolen by Alfred Mushet."

"Who is Alfred Mushet?" asked the visitor.

"He is at present in the fourteenth cell, and he is there because he made one of the most curious mistakes ever heard of in crime. And so, though I observe that you are inclined to be impatient--which I perfectly understand--I do, in the words of the charming Scheherazade whose example I am following, humbly entreat you to listen to the queer history of Alfred Mushet. I promise that the time will not be wasted."

The Governor then began in these terms:

* * * * *

One day, some weeks after the tragic death of Gladys Crieff, the actress, Alfred Mushet stood in the shop of Abe Hartz, a little be-spectacled Jew in the East End. Mushet was in a temper, and he did not disguise it.

"It is no good denying anything," he cried fiercely. "You can't deny it. I left my attaché-case with you yesterday. You promised to look after it until I came back. Just you hand it over."

"You 'ave called me many names without letting me eggsplain," answered Hartz mildly, as he clawed at his beard and gazed innocently through his thick spectacles. "It was not me that you gif your case to. You mus' come back."

"I want it now, you old crook! I'm in a hurry. Don't finger your spectacles, but get a move on and look for my attaché-case!"

"But I cannot see without my spectacles," smiled Hartz. "And even with them I cannot see your case. Go away and then come back----"

"I will not come back. You hand the case over, or you'll be sorry."

"But, my dear sir----"

"Don't 'dear sir' me. I know your kind. And don't try any tricks with me."

Hartz raised his hands and waved them in indignation.

"What for it is that you insult me? If you think I want your case, you bring in a policeman, and to him I shall eggsplain----"

"I don't need any cop to settle with you," flared Mushet. "I know why you are keeping it. I'll fix you for that, you dirty little Yid."

And he picked up a counter weight and flung it at Hartz's head as he left the shop.

He walked along the street biting his finger-nails and fuming internally.

There is no doubt that Alfred Mushet was in an awkward predicament. In the attaché-case was the necklace which the police were seeking throughout London. How he had taken it was simple enough. He had been in the pit of the theatre one night and had seen it on the neck of Gladys Crieff, and he had made up his mind to steal it; and, by a remarkable chance, he had gone to the flat at the very time that Gladys Crieff was alone, waiting for the visit of Richard Caffyn. All this came out afterwards, of course.

Mushet had watched the flat carefully. He had seen the maid go out on her shopping expedition. He had seen Richard Caffyn go up to the flat, and he had seen Caffyn leave. He followed at once, intending to make his raid. He had a skeleton key with which to open the door, but he had no need to use it. The door, as I have already mentioned, was open when the maid returned from her second shopping expedition. Caffyn had left it open, and Alfred Mushet had, between the departure of Caffyn and the return of the maid, entered and secured the necklace.

He had seen the actress lying on the settee in front of the sitting-room fire. But he had thought she was resting, and he did not enter that room. He had found the necklace in the jewel-case on the dressing-table in the bedroom. It was a case of a swift raid and flight. I don't suppose it would have made any difference to him had he known that the girl was dead.

But, once he had the necklace, he found that it was a difficult thing to hide. The police were seeking it everywhere. No dealer would handle it; no receiver would look at it until the hue and cry had died down. From place to place Mushet had taken it with him until he had borrowed enough money to take a run over to the Continent. But when he was getting his passport and making his arrangements he could not always carry the necklace in his possession, lest the police took it into their heads to suspect him. For this reason he had placed the necklace, inside the attaché-case, in the keeping of Hartz. He chose Hartz's place because Hartz did a quite respectable business in the pawnbroking line, and Mushet had pawned his watch and had asked Hartz to keep his case until he called for it the next day or so.

It was a small shop in a mean thoroughfare. Above the door was the one word, _Hartz_, in faded letters, and the three golden globes that proclaimed the kind of business transacted. Mushet had never been across the threshold until he entered to sell his watch and leave his case. And now, having secured his passport, and with his ticket already purchased, he was held up because Hartz pretended that he could not find the case. It was a very annoying situation.

Alfred Mushet had reckoned to be in Paris that night, and the more he thought over the situation the more he came to the conclusion that Hartz was trying on a piece of bluff. The barefaced way that Hartz had denied having received the case was exasperating. Mushet saw through the whole thing. The old rascal had opened the case, had seen the necklace, and had recognised it, and was either keeping it, or intended to hand it over to the police for the sake of the reward that had been offered for its recovery. Yes, Hartz was a wily one!

If Hartz had been a regular receiver of stolen property, Mushet would have handled him differently than by merely threatening him; but Hartz was not a receiver. He was a hard old man who loaned money and bargained with all the cunning of his race. He had no friends locally. He was available for business at any hour. It was said that he never slept; he was always the same when his door bell rang. He was too mean, the neighbours declared, to leave his shop on any pretext. If he ever went to bed, he must have gone with his clothes on, for at every hour he was ready to answer a summons without delay.

Mushet knew that Hartz had this reputation. He knew that Hartz was sneered at, and derided, by those who borrowed from him or pawned their goods with him--a sort of Ishmael in the wilderness of London.

Mushet had lodgings in the street from which he could see the shop; and he ground his teeth as he marched along trying to find a plan by which he could compel Hartz to disgorge the swag.