Only seven were hanged
wireless. At the morning parade in every police headquarters this
morning this man's description has already been read out. I tell you
a murderer's position is hopeless from the start. Think of the
wearing effect on him. England isn't so big. No country is so big
that he can expect a getaway. It isn't that his danger is ever over.
So long as he is uncaught he is in danger. A murder charge hangs
fire for all his life. And then, when his nerves are in rags, he
makes a false move, says an incriminating word--and he's done for!"
"Maybe that's true," said the landlord. "How'd you come to know all
that, George?"
"I knows it by watching the foxes that rob the henroosts. When you
corner a fox you can see the hopelessness in his eyes. You may have
him treed, or just cornered. It don't matter. You can see him
making his bad moves. You know he knows the fight is hopeless. In
the end he gets desperate, reckless. Then you've got him. The same
with dogs. And men, too. Some men do one thing and some do another.
It all depends on their brains. But sooner or later their brains
fail 'em. The torture of being hunted tells. The police know it
well enough. I've talked it over with an inspector."
He turned toward the man in the corner, eager to find some one who
would agree with him. But the man in the corner seemed to be asleep,
his cap drawn down over his forehead. The landlord rubbed his chin.
"Wonder who he is?" he said, scarcely above a whisper. "He's been
tramping the road. Maybe looking for a job. I thought he looked
like needing a wash----"
He crossed the room and laid a hand on the fugitive's shoulder.
"Gone asleep, sir? Better wake up or your beer will go stale!"
The man lifted his head. The landlord looked into the dirty, haggard
face.
"Hey, what's your name?" he cried, quickly. "Where do you come from?"
For answer the man sprang to his feet and struck the landlord full on
the mouth, sending him staggering back across the room. Then,
upsetting the table and his food and drink, he leaped forward and was
gone before a hand could be laid upon him.
As he raced past the window he heard the shouts of the men in the
taproom:
"The murderer! It's the murderer!"
But Connolly ran on down the village street. He had a glimpse of a
constable and a plain-clothes man emerging from the local police
headquarters as he fled past; then he dived down a side entrance to a
house, climbed over the wall at the bottom of the garden, and ran
across the meadows toward the river.
He had a good start. A thick wood clothed the banks of the stream,
and beyond the wood was hilly country. If he could gain the hills he
might hide until night and then make his way back to the city. The
country, where he had expected to find security, was his enemy. His
thoughts went back to London and its opportunities. He saw his
mistake in coming to the country. The old theory that a city is the
best place in which to hide pierced its way into his mind with
painful acuteness. And as quick as it came this theory vanished.
What chance had he in London? There were teeming millions, it was
true, moving about its streets; but there were thousands of
policemen. No, the country was the place, after all! The woods, and
the hills, where he could see his enemies from a distance! He could
not see them, at least he could not distinguish them, among his
neighbors in London.
These thoughts flashed through his brain as he raced toward the river
and the woods. They were not so much thoughts as impressions, swift
and fleeting. He cast a glance behind him. He was being pursued,
the policeman and the plain-clothes man in advance of others. A
dozen people, mostly men, were strung out in the chase. The hounds
and their quarry.
Connolly dashed into the river, which was not deep, and waded across.
Into the woods he ran, but when he saw a grassy slope beyond the
trees he knew that he would be caught before he reached the ravines
and wooded gullies farther ahead. He rushed back to the river.
His pursuers were now on the opposite bank. He heard them shouting
and saw them gesticulating. He dodged behind the trees and
shrubbery, racing, bent almost double, into the thick undergrowth and
pushing along the bank. Suddenly he burst through the shrubs and
found himself facing a small inlet, a backwater of green, slimy water
out of which reeds and rushes grew in profusion. He plunged into the
almost stagnant place and found that the bottom was soft with ooze;
but it was not more than a foot or so deep. He lay down among a
large clump of reeds, drawing them over his face as best he could.
It was terribly cold, but he did not feel the chill. He hugged the
tall grasses and weeds, covering himself with them so that only his
face was above the surface, and that practically hidden. He could
thus breathe.
Hardly had his arrangements been made when he heard his pursuers.
They were searching the wood. The water around him was now smooth
and untroubled. Peering through the grasses he saw, on the edge of
the inlet, the figure of the man called George.
"Seen him, George?" called a voice. It was the policeman's voice.
George did not answer at once. His eyes were sweeping the creek,
resting on every bunch of reeds slowly and critically. Connolly felt
these eyes come to his clump. He felt that George was gazing
straight at him, that their eyes had met. A tremble ran through
Connolly's limbs. He was about to leap up and make a dash for it,
when the voice of George answered the policeman's query:
"Expect he's through the wood and down in a hollow, Ben. But he
can't escape. He'll be caught all right."
The searchers moved off, going toward the ravines.
Connolly could have sworn that the man called George had seen
him--but that was evidently his own fears at work, his own nerves
making hay of his better judgment. He raised his head and peered
about. There was no sign of his pursuers. But they might come back.
He crawled to the bank, a ghastly wretch covered with green slime and
dripping with water. He was like a dirty water-snake. Now that he
was free of the water of the inlet, he shivered.
He wrung the water from his garments as best he could and crawled
toward a thick oak, on his hands and knees, resting his back against
the trunk of the tree. He was exhausted and worn. His teeth
chattered, but that was not altogether the result of cold.
But he dared not lie there. Already he seemed to hear voices in the
distance. Some of those who had pursued him were returning, others
from the village were crossing the stream. He was between two
forces. Where could he find safety? Upward! He began to climb the
tree.
It was terrible labor, but desperation lent aid to his slipping feet
and clutching hands. At last he reached a heavy branch. He drew
himself up and toiled upward into the thick foliage. Thus he found a
screen between him and those who sought him. He looked down from a
fork where he was lying like a lizard. He saw men and youths passing
below. There were a few women, too. Oh, how the whole world was
searching for him! All wanted to hang him. Strange how everybody
sought revenge for a crime with which they had nothing to do and
which they did not altogether understand. All they knew was that he
had killed--and for that he must be killed.
He remained in the tree all day, undiscovered and unsuspected. Men
moved about, but the wood had been searched so thoroughly that a
rabbit could not have remained on the ground unseen; nor a mouse, for
that matter. It was not until evening that the searchers left the
wood and returned to the village.
What Connolly endured in that tree during that day only he and God
knew. His clothes dried on him, becoming hard and uncomfortable. He
could keep his perch only with the greatest difficulty; sometimes he
lay clasping the branch in a sort of wakeful dream. Things assumed
unreal shapes and appearances. But everything had been unreal from
the moment he had lifted his hand against the woman. All was now a
distorted nightmare, a frightful, spectral phantasma that moved
ghost-like before him. His very existence was a matter of doubt to
him. And gnawing at him was his excruciating anguish of mind and
body that almost drove him frantic.
Time after time he drew aside the screen of foliage and looked about.
The village did not seem disturbed. The houses were there, straight
walls and horizontal roofs. The church steeple towered straight to
heaven. Among the trees in the distance he saw a moving plume of
white smoke. That was a train going to London. London!
Twilight came, then night. The lights in the village twinkled. The
murderer lowered himself to the ground. He was so stiff that he fell
when his feet touched the earth. He staggered to his feet and rubbed
the blood of his body into circulation. Wave upon wave of despair
swept over him. Food had not passed his lips, except for a mouthful
at the inn, for twenty-four hours. He lay down and drank greedily
from the muddy water of the creek. That revived him a little.
At midnight the village was dark and quiet. He came out of the wood.
Hunger was driving him--hunger and the necessity for action. He
crouched low, like a hunted animal, with one idea in his mind. He
must get to London. In the country people did not stay up late. He
could get food at all hours in London. He had a little, a very
little, money, and he could sell the trinkets he had taken from her.
He crossed meadow after meadow, breaking his way through the hedges.
He had almost reached the highroad when the headlights of an
automobile swung round a corner and the roar of its engine filled his
ears.
Connolly stood still in his tracks. His fears bawled at him that in
the car were other pursuers, more police from London to hem him in.
They were coming to the village. The village would be raised against
him once more. London would be up in arms, too, watching and waiting
to pounce on him. What chance had he in London? The same as he had
in the country, and that was nil. Not a single chance anywhere! He
dropped to the ground as the car rushed past him, so that the
headlights might not pick him out. The act of dropping stirred his
resistance. Was it true he had no chance? Not a single chance? He
threw himself down on the grass under cover of a hedge to think it
out. Was he capable of thought?
"I can't go to London," he cried. "They will be waiting at the
railway and on the buses. And I can't walk. But there is bound to
be a chance. One chance!"
The stifling truth burst on him that he was not really fighting men
at all now. He was fighting the emotionless, relentless machine
called the Law. That machine was searching for him, outlawing him,
driving him to desperation and to thoughts of unspeakable reprisals.
His weariness was so heavy that it bore him into a state of
semi-consciousness. He lay motionless under the hedge.
The hours passed.
He came back to himself as the gray dawn tinged the east. For other
men it was a new day, born in hope and promising the glory of
achievement. For him...!
After a while he raised himself to his knees, and so to his feet. He
stepped into the highway. A fierce resolution stirred within him.
He had an idea.
Not more than a hundred yards down the road a red brick villa stood
isolated. The blinds were drawn. But in the villa there must be
food, drink, clothing.
Connolly walked toward the house, slunk round to the back, and prised
open a window with his pocket knife. In climbing over the sill his
foot caught a flower pedestal and sent it down with a crash.
If Connolly had any idea of retreating, he had no time to do so, for