Only seven were hanged
torn off. And there was another thing--he had come away without his
hat. He could not now recollect where he had laid his hat when he
had called on her. He must have come all the way from that house
without the hat. The omnibus conductor must have noted him.
Pedestrians would have seen him. He had hundreds of witnesses
against him. The police would have no lack of witnesses, and every
finger would point toward him. The thought sent a shiver through
him. He must get away.
His first act was to change his clothes. He put on an old suit, took
an old cap, and went out. More than two hours had now passed since
he had left the house where the woman lay dead. The omnibuses were
making their final runs for the night. He stepped on to one and took
a ticket to the terminus. Somewhere beyond the city he would find a
place to hide.
He climbed to the top of the bus, though there was a flurry of rain
in the air. He took care to muffle up his face in his coat as much
as possible, and huddled in the back seat, wondering, vaguely, what
plan he might adopt. He had a little money. Ought he to take a
train to a port and try to stow away on board an outgoing vessel?
No, that was impossible. The police would track him that way easier
than any other. The skipper of the ship would communicate with land;
in any case, even if he managed to work his passage, he only narrowed
his chances of hiding by going to sea. One cannot run away from a
ship.
On the other hand, since he must stay on land, he knew it was but a
matter of hours before every policeman in the country would have his
description and would be looking out for him. These things were done
by telegraph. There was also the telephone. On land and on sea he
did not seem to have a chance. But on the other hand he could hide
so long as he was free. That thought comforted him a little.
When the bus reached the terminus he dismounted and walked along the
country road beyond the bus sheds as if he knew his way; but this
seeming knowledge of his whereabouts was merely as a blind in case
the busmen had seen and noted him. He hadn't the least idea where he
was going. All that was in his mind was that the police would soon
be on his trail and that he was safest away from his usual haunts.
In the wide country he would work out a way of escape.
He put his hand into his overcoat pocket and found that he still had
the blood-stained handkerchief with which he had wiped his hands
after the deed. He wanted to get rid of it, but could not think of
how to do it. The rain had filled the ditches along the road. He
filled the handkerchief with stones and dropped it to the bottom of
the ditch. He did not want to be found with that handkerchief on
him. Then he sat down on the sloping bank. The rain had ceased. He
leaned against the hedge, trying to sleep.
But the darkness terrified him. He had never known what it was to
spend a night in the open alone, with only the silence of the
countryside around him. He could not sleep. He was chilled and his
bones ached. But he did not move. No one came near him. A
stillness as of death filled the air. The atmosphere was singing
with that peculiar hum that makes quietness intense and lonely. The
night dragged.
Perhaps he dozed a little. He never knew, but he closed his eyes
often enough and opened them at intervals. Once, when he opened
them, he saw that it was dawn. He was shivering. Birds were
twittering in the trees, insects were flitting about the grass and
the roots of the hedge, the cattle in the meadows were lowing.
Nature was expanding, like one of her flowers, to another day's life.
Only the man who crouched at the base of the hedge feared the coming
of the light.
In the distance he saw the red tower of a church, and, besides the
church, the blue-gray smoke of the cottage fires issuing from the
chimneys. He heard the crunch of a country cart coming along the
road. He arose and began to walk in the direction of the village.
At the fringe of the village there was a signboard which gave its
name. One arm of the board pointed down a forked road, indicating
that he was over a dozen miles from the city. The other arm gave
direction to a town he had never visited. He dared not go back to
the city. If he went to the town, he would run into danger that way,
too. He decided to wait in the vicinity of the village. Hunger was
beginning to gnaw at him.
He loitered among the meadows for an hour or two and saw the village
awakening to its work. Men and women came out to the fields. The
church clock struck hours at what seemed terribly long intervals.
The crowing of cocks and the barking of dogs came to his ears.
Necessity forced him to make a bold move. He walked into the village
and entered the first inn he reached.
The moment he caught sight of himself in the large mirror above the
bar he realized that he presented a wild appearance; disheveled,
dirty, a contrast to the trim proprietor who was polishing glasses.
The fugitive strode over to a corner table and sat down. A newspaper
lay on the table, and at another in the opposite corner several
countrymen sat talking and drinking beer.
"What can I get you, sir?"
The landlord was standing before him, pleasant and clean in his white
apron.
"Some bread and cheese and beer."
In a few moments these were placed on his table, and as he paid for
them he heard the conversation of the men in the other corner.
"What I say," said one, dogmatically, "is this: There isn't a chance
for him. I'd rather be the one that was murdered than the murderer."
The fugitive drew back into the shadow, his bread halfway to his
mouth. He gripped tightly at the edge of the table.
"Why do you say that, George?" asked another. "If you was murdered
you'd be dead. You ain't much use to yourself or anybody if you're
dead."
A third man laughed. "While there's life there's always a hope," he
said, and sipped at his tankard.
"That may be true," replied the man called George, "but I'd rather be
dead, killed and done with, than running like a hare before the law.
I've bin thinkin' about it since I seen the newspaper. I seen a bit
in my time. I'd rather be the one than t'other. Fancy runnin' wild
with a reward out for you!"
The man in the corner lowered his head so that they might not see his
face. He was trembling, though whether from weakness or from fear he
did not know.
"The best reward for a man like that," said the second voice, "is a
rope round his neck and a six-foot drop. We don't want murderers in
this country. Kill 'em off, I say. This one went to see the woman
and killed her because she'd got another man. It was a brutal crime.
The paper says so."
"It was a crime of jealousy," said the man called George.
"Huh!"
"He had been in love with the woman. Some say they were as good as
married. He come back to find another in his place. He'd been away
for some years. There was a story I read once, called 'Enoch Arden.'
Well, I was thinkin' about it. What would you do if you came back
and found your wife had thrown you over for somebody else--any of
you?"
There was a silence. The man called George continued.
"Jealousy! Ain't that a kind of madness? Ain't love a kind of
madness?"
"No reason for murder, George!"
"Oh, I don't know. Just think--if it came to you. I'm not sayin' he
was justified. I'm not savin' anything except this--if you ain't
jealous you ain't in love. Anyway, it's done. I'll bet he's sorry
by this time."
"Come, George, you can't tell us that a brute like that has any
conscience. Murderers haven't any feelings of that kind. Hang 'em,
say I. If we don't hang 'em we'll have people committin' murder
wholesale."
"I never heard of anybody, except maybe a raving lunatic like Jack
the Ripper, who wanted to commit more'n one murder," replied George.
"I've seen things, I tell you. And them like Jack the Ripper ain't
responsible. Besides, I'm not talking about conscience. I'm
thinkin' about him bein' hunted up hill and down dale. There ain't
much chance for him."
"That's true," said one with satisfaction.
"He can't get away," went on George; "at least, not far. They've got
his description, and it was only last night the murder was done.
How'd you like, Tom, to be on the run, knowin' you were wanted
everywhere? It would be a terrible feeling."
"I wouldn't commit murder," retorted Tom, doggedly. "He brought it
on himself."
"I know. I know. I'm not taking his side. I think he should be
caught. But it seems to me that he is at a horrible disadvantage.
Think of what must be going on inside his brain just now. He's bound
to know he'll be caught."
"That's true!"
The voice had come, forced as it were, from the fugitive. He was
bending over his table, his fingers crumbling his bread nervously.
George turned in the man's direction and nodded sagely.
"Glad you agree with me, sir," he said. "It isn't much of a chance
he has.... See you've been having a tramp around the district? Lots
of folk come down this way on a walking tour. There's the pilgrim's
path over the downs. A nice walk that."
A silence fell on the room. The man in the corner was staring
vacantly at the man called George.
"Speaking to me?" he asked, slowly.
"Yes, sir. You agreed with me about this here murderer----"
"Did I?"
He did not know he had spoken. His brain was not under his control,
and the reminder that he had addressed this man called George sent
his fears sky-high.
A footstep sounded in the passage and a man stood on the threshold of
the taproom, beckoning to the landlord. The murderer sank deeper
into the shadow. The man who had beckoned to the landlord was a
policeman.
The landlord went out and there was a hum of conversation carried on
in low tones. In a few minutes the landlord returned, his face grave
and solemn.
"That's Ben Turner, the constable," he announced. "He says that
they've reason to think the murderer is in the district. He left the
city on a bus last night----"
"The murderer?"
"Uh-huh. He left his lodgings not half an hour before the cops went
there to get him. He was easily traced. He left his hat and plenty
of finger-prints, and a coat button."
The fugitive lowered his head still further and hid his face in his
arms, pretending to be asleep. But his ears were open to catch every
word.
"And me, I was just saying," said the man called George, "that I
wouldn't like to have the feelings of that man. Hunted for his life."
"What about the life he took, George? It was a bad business. He
battered that woman up terrible."
"There ain't much in a man that attacks a lone woman," cried one of
the countrymen. "The sooner he's caught the better."
"Oh, he'll be caught all right," said George. "They're always
caught. They make mistakes."
"I'd like to think it," said the landlord, skeptically. "Things
ain't safe with them kind about."
"Yes, they make mistakes," continued George, quietly. "Even them
that plan murder and carry it out in cold blood. Even them. They
can't help it."
The murderer raised his head cautiously and saw George laying down
his tankard of beer to resume his speech.
"You see," said George, "they're bound to make mistakes. A murderer
fleeing from the law is handicapped by the strain and anxiety of the
chase. Just think of it! He can't lie down and sleep in peace. He
can't be seen in the daytime. He daren't go near his friends. The
police are watching his usual haunts. They are at the railway
depots. They are making inquiries everywhere. There isn't a step a
murderer dare take that he must not test before he takes it. The
telephone is working against him. So is the telegraph. So is the