Only seven were hanged
have the other one I wrote. You cannot now prevent the truth coming
out. Even if they imprison me I will shriek your conduct from the
dock and the cell. I had intended to drink what is in this tumbler
and so defeat your law----"
She burst into a passionate declaration. The boy at the door heard
everything. He heard his mother say that she desired her own and his
death. He heard her confess that she had broken the law; that she
had recently stolen things; that she was in fear of arrest; that the
police were coming for her; that poverty and love of her child had
driven her too hard. He heard her upbraiding the man bitterly.
In the midst of the torrent of accusation the boy entered the room,
holding the other letter in his hand. The man saw the letter and
took it, from him, whipping it from his fingers before the child
could explain. The woman shrieked and fell back on her pillow in a
faint.
The man turned to the boy and said, harshly:
"Go! Fetch a doctor!"
The boy ran out of the room; but once again the cunning that life had
taught him halted him on the stairs. He crept back and looked
through the opening of the door-hinge.
He saw the man standing by the bed, his gloved hands clasped tightly
together, fingers interlocked, and his expression fixed in a rigidity
that was stern and terrible.
For some moments the man remained thus. The child watched, holding
his breath. He saw the man lift the tumbler from the table and sniff
at the contents, then lay it down again; but he took it up once more
and approached the bed. With his one hand he raised the head of the
boy's mother. Her eyelids flickered. She sighed. The man's hand
seemed to tremble, but he forced himself to put the tumbler to the
woman's lips. She drank eagerly, thirstily, her eyes still closed.
Not until she had gulped down most of the contents did she open her
eyes. She never spoke, but in her eyes was a look that seemed to
pierce the boy to the marrow. She was staring at the man.
The man let her head fall back on the pillow. He laid the tumbler on
the table, glanced at his finger tips, and then turned toward the
woman again. A spasm passed through her. That was all. After that
she lay very still.
The double murder had been committed--first, murder of her soul, then
murder of her body.
But the child who had seen this did not understand, though he was
aware that a crisis had come and had passed. He burst into tears and
ran down the stairs to fetch a doctor who lived in the next street....
[The waiter raised his head, for a sound had come from the judge.
"Did you speak, my lord?" There was no reply. The judge's eyes were
closed and his right hand covered the lower part of his countenance,
an attitude he often assumed on the bench when engaged in deep
thought. The dawn was streaming through the curtains. The fire had
died down and the room was chilly. A slight shiver passed through
the massive frame of the judge. The waiter, too, shivered; but he
rose to his feet with an effort.
"I shall not keep you much longer listening, my lord," he said,
distinctly, but without looking at the judge. "There is not much to
add in this hypothetical, or actual, case, which I have called the
basest crime of all."]
The child fetched the doctor. The woman was dead. Listen to the
story the man who had killed her told the doctor. He told it
pompously, legally, with his usual air of superiority. He said the
woman had written to him urging him to come and take up her case,
which was of importance. He had destroyed the note she wrote, but
out of his generosity--for he was known to be generous at times--he
came. But fear of arrest had caused her to take the poison just
before he arrived. It was a very virulent poison that was in the
tumbler. Recognizing the situation, he had at once sent the child
for medical aid.
And the doctor accepted the statement. There was no need for this
inhuman betrayer of women to appear at the subsequent inquest. His
position made it sufficient for an affidavit to be accepted. The
woman's fingermarks were on the tumbler. Who was she, anyway? She
was known under her maiden name. She had a child. She had been an
actress. Did not all unfortunate creatures call themselves
actresses? She had no relatives. She was in poverty. Verdict of
the coroner's jury: Death caused by the self-administration of poison
while of unsound mind!
And the child? Why did he not state what he had seen? Did I not
tell you he was a loyal child? In his young brain there burned the
truth that his mother was in danger of arrest, of imprisonment.
Shame and fear, misery and despair, grief and confusion, reigned
within his mind. His life had taught him suffering. His mother had
taught him secrecy. He was afraid of the law, he shrank from the
cold authority that was surrounding him. He was stunned by the blow
that had fallen. It was the doctor who took him away. It was the
doctor who placed him in a home--a home for orphans where he was
under the rules and régime of a discipline that shattered his
orientation. Can a child think clearly? Can a child arrange his
ideas and sort out his troubles? By the time he saw and classified
things he was too late to voice his injustices. He was already
adrift--stampeded into retaliatory crime!
"Now permit me to come to the motive for the basest crime you have
heard. Why do I call it the basest crime? Let us recapitulate those
we have considered. Are you paying attention, my lord?"
The judge had not moved. He seemed to be without life, but the
tremble of the hand that covered his features told the waiter that he
was listening.
"In the first case, that of Ammar Baddan," said the waiter, "the
murder was committed because of a clash of ethics. I find no point
of similarity there to this case.
"In the first case I related, that of Lorry Black, the motive was
revenge. There is no point of similarity there.
"In the second case you related, that of Abe Lammie, the motive was
burglary, the desire for possession. There is no similarity there.
"In the second case I related, that of Jeff S. Connolly, the motive
was jealousy. There is no similarity there.
"In the third case you related, that of Nathaniel Gore, you yourself
emphasized that vanity brought him to the scaffold. There is no
similarity there.
"In the third case I related, that of Walter Seale, the crime was one
of passion. There is no similarity there.
"Your fourth case--which proved so disastrous to you--demonstrated
the blindness of justice and a crime of hate. There is no similarity
there.
"I do not doubt that in all your experience you have never come
across a baser, meaner, more foul crime of murder than the one--my
fourth--which I have just told. You have had the unique opportunity,
also, of viewing this assassination from the standpoint of a judge.
The motive was the preservation of this man's professional career and
social position. Had the woman he had betrayed and then abandoned
been arrested, the truth about his past would have been disclosed.
He preserved himself at the cost of this girl who had given him all a
woman can give. He stamped her into a felon's grave to keep his own
feet out of the mud. He made his child _filius nullius_, a son of
nobody, inflicting on that child, as he had inflicted on the child's
mother, suffering and shame and agony that cannot be expressed in
words. Give me your judgment!"
The judge did not answer.
"Your judgment!" cried the waiter, impatiently.
The judge dropped his hand from his face and gazed at the waiter with
glassy eyes.
"Your judgment!"
No answer came.
The waiter's voice rang out like that of an advocate addressing a
court of law.
"Remember your code! _If the offender means to cause the death of
the person killed_--and this man meant to cause the death of the girl
he betrayed!"
A pause, during which the judge gave no sign.
"Remember your code! _If a person administers any stupefying thing
for the purpose of defeating justice_ it is murder!"
Still not a word from the judge.
"Remember your oath! _Without fear or favor, without affection or
ill-mil ... in the faithful discharge of your duty ... so help you,
God!_ You cannot refuse sentence! Judgment of death!"
The judge's lips moved, but no word came. He appeared to be in a
trance. He made another effort to speak.
"Judgment of death?" he echoed in a hollow voice; and his hand was
raised slightly in horrified, feeble protestation.
"Pass the verdict upon yourself!" the waiter hurled at him in a
savage frenzy of victory. "Speak, judge of criminals! Ah, you know!
You comprehend! For you were the man who, eighteen years ago, handed
the fatal draught to the woman whom you betrayed and then destroyed!
Slayer of women! Defrauder of children! Dispenser of the law! See,
here is your badge of office!"
He drew an object from his pocket and threw it down on the table in
front of the judge.
A shiver passed through the latter's massive frame. Like a
somnambulist he put out his fingers and touched the object; but drew
back his hand quickly with a startled cry. He recognized the dark
object.
It was the black cap worn by judges who pass the judgment of death
sentence!
The waiter leered at him; the judge, down whose face perspiration was
streaming, jerked himself back in his chair. From being livid his
features changed to gray, then to pasty white. His heavy jaws
sagged, shaking as with convulsions.
A moment or two passed in silence. There was a terrible look on the
waiter's face as he watched the judge's struggles. The latter was
making frightful efforts to control himself. At last his countenance
became more normal, but his teeth showed, gritting. And his eyes
glowed like the eyes of a beast in a trap. They were like two
wolves, these men; and if the old wolf was cornered, the young wolf
lingered over his victory. He began to taunt him.
"Come on, my lord! The judgment! The judgment! How does it appeal
to you now? The black cap is there! It is your own! Taken from
your chambers! I took it! I brought it here! Does it not feel
homely? Put it on your head! Judgment of death! You cannot refuse!
Beaten! That is what you are! Give in! Give in! Confess defeat!"
With a sudden movement he tore open his shirt front. The judge cried
out.
Under the waiter's shirt was the dress of a convict, prison garb!
"Come on, my lord! Defeated by me! Convicted by a convict! You
have no defense! Look at me! Your obstinacy battered to pieces!
Logically bankrupt! Socially, too! Your own law holds you! Confess
I have smashed you! Confess I have convinced you! Throw yourself on
the mercy of the court! Confess! Confess! Judgment of death!"
"It is blackmail!" came from between the judge's teeth, in a hissing
fury.
The waiter either did not hear or did not care to hear. He continued
to rail at the judge, taunting with scalding words, hurling the legal
code at him, pelting him with sneers and humiliations. And in the
end he threw down on the table a small book, and with a twist of his
thumb turned the cover over, revealing a photograph lying within.
The judge stared aghast at the book and the old photograph. The book
was Abbe Prevost's Manon Lescaut. The picture was that of a
beautiful girl in theatrical costume.
"Now will you confess, my lord? See, there is the signature of the
giver of the book on the title page!"
The bitterness had gone from the waiter's voice. He was gazing at
the judge with tragic intensity.
The judge was ashen; he gasped as if struggling out of a swoon. Red
rims circled his eyes.
"Give me time!" he muttered. "Give me air!"