Only seven were hanged
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