Only seven were hanged
burrowing anywhere, in tool-sheds, in garden shelters, in any place
he could find.
And it was here that the second agony joined forces with the first.
Had he not been a man of iron will he would have succumbed or
surrendered. But his pain had the opposite effect. It made him all
the more determined to gain his objective. It acted as a spur,
driving him ahead to the crisis he had pictured and fixed in his
mind. He suffered that he might triumph.
Prison had failed in his case. It had punished him, perhaps, but it
had never deterred him, and it had never educated him out of crime.
This was because he had already been a victim of injustice before he
was born and had come into the world with a grievance that was a
weight to be borne only with difficulty. He was a living problem and
a terrible answer to the clergy who prate of children being "lent by
God" to parents. God had not lent him to anybody. God had thrust
him into a world where he did not fit. He had begun, as soon as he
realized his position, to revenge himself on society.
Like many others, he was thus a living proof that, though the law
could punish him, it could not deter. Force could be, and was, met
by cunning. The fierce methods of early punitive systems never cured
the equally fierce methods of criminals, for the obvious reason that
to "make the punishment fit the crime" results, as a rule, in the
criminal being lost sight of. The law, perhaps because of its own
nature, standardizes wrong-doers as it standardizes wrongs, and the
result is that every kind of lawbreaker meets every other kind in
prison to undergo the same treatment for all sorts of varieties of
crime.
Prison, however, had kept on this man, as it so often keeps on
others, the thin veneer by which it sought to preserve social habits
as opposed to anti-social habits--an endeavor to maintain the skin of
civilized man on a rebel. But during his days of anxiety when he was
seeking a refuge from his pursuers he became, owing to the necessity
of living, a kinsman of savages. One states this without blaming or
excusing. It was merely a fact. He had entered prison a polished
thief, a glib malefactor. He became, in that week of torment,
something quite different. But the idea of revenge, which had
floated at the back of his mind for some time, crystallized. His
fine brain, part of his heredity, devised a more exquisite method of
vengeance than swift accusation and angry blows. His mother had
failed to obtain justice because she had adopted a line that the law
did not recognize. His plan was to avoid failure, yet to strike
fear. But the mouse had been killed before fear of the cat paralyzed
its resistance.
Did he regret the climax that now caused him to speed through the
snow-covered streets? It is impossible to say. He had sought for
triumph of a delicate and particular kind, and he had obtained a
finality. All this had a remarkable effect on him. His brain was as
keen as ever, as logical as ever, as fine in its conception as ever;
but something primitive in him had developed suddenly. It may have
been the grip of the ancient barbarous cudgel that communicated a
stark something to him. No man had ever gripped that bludgeon so
naturally, so instinctively, since it had been dug from the ooze of
the Thames. His fingers clung to the burnt grooves with an inborn
intimacy. It was his constitutional weapon. And this new
primitiveness made him cautious yet aggressive, furtive yet bold,
suspicious yet defiant.
He strode on, his hand on the handle of the bludgeon which was in his
pocket, his arm cuddling the knobbed head which was far up his
sleeve. In the still, quiet, white morning the houses seemed to him
to be tall, gaunt prisons, the few pedestrians were his enemies. But
he pushed on until he reached a locality that spoke of middle-class
residents, rows and rows of detached houses. He strode to the door
of one and rang the bell forcefully.
It was still somewhat early. A window above the doorway opened and a
man's head was thrust out.
"Who's there?"
"Come down and let me in," called the visitor. "I have come to wish
you a happy Christmas, Bern, you old sinner!"
The window slammed and in a few minutes the front door was opened
slightly. The visitor burst his way into the hall and shook the snow
from his shoulders and cap. Facing him was a small man clad in a
dressing-gown.
"You!" he gasped, shivering as the snow flew about the hall. "You,
Lorry Black! You, Adam Jelks!"
"Didn't expect to see me, Bern!"
"No."
They regarded each other for a moment. The man in the gown shivered
and his hand shook visibly as he saw his visitor was expecting him to
shake. Bern's hand was the colder of the two when they clasped.
"You've got to help me, Bern. Lead the way. Have you a fire? I've
come to talk business."
Bern shuffled toward a back parlor and ushered his visitor in. A
fire was laid. Bern put a light to it and turned to gaze at the
other.
"I saw by the newspapers you had escaped, Lorry--or is it Adam?"
"It doesn't matter much, Bern."
"You've been out for some days. I didn't want you to come here. I
didn't expect you."
"But I've come, Bern. I'll tell you why I came. You remember the
insurance money that came to me when I was supposed to be drowned in
the name of Lorry Black? You got it to hold for me. I need it now."
"But, Lorry----"
"I need it. But first I want another suit of clothes. Fetch a
complete outfit. I'm cold."
He opened his overcoat and threw it off, revealing his waiter's garb,
and the open shirt front showed his prison jacket. Bern gave a cry
and held up his hands in alarm.
"Lorry, where have you been in that dress? Evening dress over _them
things_!"
"Get me a suit and I'll tell you. And get me a breakfast too. Go
on, you Yid. Do as I say."
He held up the bludgeon, and Bern saw a red smear on the knobbed head.
"Lorry!" he cried.
"Listen, Bern. I came here so that I might get away. You'll do as I
tell you. See? If not..."
He hefted the bludgeon meaningly. Bern shuddered.
"Now, Bern, get busy. Breakfast. A suit of clothes. When I'm
eating I'll talk."
Bern shuffled off to obey the order. He came back with clothes and
in a short time a breakfast was placed on the parlor table. He
watched his visitor change his clothes and roll the prison garments
into a bundle.
"You'll burn them, Bern. You have a furnace in the basement. Wait,
I'll do it myself."
He knew the house, apparently, for he went out and Bern heard him
clumping downstairs. When he returned he was smiling grimly.
"That's done, Bern. Now, let's eat. I'm staying here today--until
night. I'm spending Christmas with you. No other friends coming, I
suppose?"
"No, no other friends, Jelks."
"And don't let any servant see me, Bern."
"No."
"Have a cup of tea. We're going to talk."
Bern had brought two cups. He poured out some tea, but his hand was
still shaking badly.
"Where have you been since you broke out, Jelks?"
"In hell, most of the time."
He ate rapidly, hungrily, and at length sat back in his chair with an
exclamation of satisfaction.
"You must have expected me, Bern. You gave evidence against me last
time----"
"I couldn't help it. They dragged me to the police----"
"I can guess. They made you talk, eh? They suspected you received
stolen goods; but they did not know I placed all my stuff with you.
Well, well! I've had some trouble keeping my names apart on the
jobs, Bern. But you seem to remember me as Lorry Black, eh?"
"Of course I do, Lorry."
"Now, what about the insurance money on Lorry Black's life? It was
lifted and handed to you to keep. A friend of mine gave it to you."
The Jew hesitated.
"That's right," he said at last, "but I didn't get it all."
"I know what you got. Four hundred pounds. I was insured for five.
I want that four hundred."
"Aw, Lorry, I don't keep that much in the house. I put it all in my
bank. I thought that if they found out later that Lorry Black wasn't
dead----"
"But they never found out, Bern. I want that four hundred. By God!
Bern, don't try to double-cross me! You see this bludgeon?"
Bern's eyes grew big with terror.
"I can't give you all that today, Lorry. But I'll send the rest on
to you. I'll give you all I have, Lorry."
"How much have you?"
"About a hundred pounds, roughly."
"Notes?"
"Mostly."
"Not marked ones?"
"No, no. They are all right----"
"They've got to be all right. I'm leaving this country. I've got
to."
He glanced at the bludgeon that lay beside him on the table. Bern
followed his glance.
"You haven't been doing things with that, have you, Lorry? There's
blood on it!"
Bern's voice ended in a note of alarm.
"Shut up, Bern!"
"But, Lorry--you ain't been--you ain't been murdering?" The gleam
that leaped into the other's eyes was the answer, and Bern gave a
cry. "Good God! Lorry Black!"
"You shut up! Don't yell. It isn't your blood. You'll do as I tell
you, Bern. See?"
Bern nodded dumbly.
They stared at each other in silence.
"Where have you been since you broke prison, Lorry?"
"Huh! I had a pal who used to be in quod with me. He was a waiter
by trade. Or is it a profession?" A sour smile creased his
features. "Well, he got a job as night waiter at a club. I put him
up to getting it. I wanted to use him. So I made straight for his
place when I escaped. He lives in rooms. I have lived with him for
the last two days."
Bern was rubbing his chin and gazing at the speaker, trying with
difficulty to get the hang of the story.
"I wanted to take his job for one night," went on the other, "so I
got him to buy some knockout drops. He didn't know what I wanted
them for. What was the use telling him? I used one on him. I hired
a second-hand dress suit and went up to take his place with a letter
I had written saying he wasn't well. I was his substitute. I made a
damned good waiter, I'll say that. And I got into an argument with
the president of the club and--there you are!"
"My God! Lorry--or is it Adam?"
"Well?"
"You have so many names----"
"I had no name, only a number, in prison, Bern. I'll never have a
name I might have had. Here, none of that. I've done it. You've
got to be bold these days if you want to carry off a plan."
"It isn't like you," cried Bern. "To use a cudgel. It isn't like
you. You were always bold, but this--this is different. Where did
you get that cudgel?"
"Mind your own business!"
Bern closed his mouth suddenly, but he spoke a moment later, his
voice charged with anxiety.
"They'll be on your trail, won't they? Did anybody follow you here?"
The other shook his head, smiling grimly.
"You're scared, aren't you, Bern? You think that you may be let in
badly, don't you? But you needn't worry. Nobody saw me coming
here--nobody that matters. The argument I had with the president
ended where it began."
"But the other folks in the place? Didn't they see you?"
"They were fast asleep. Didn't I tell you I had some knockout drops?
I used the drops before the argument began. So after it was finished
I came along to you. I need you, Bern."
Bern groaned.
"I can't help you much, Lorry----"
"Now then!"
The voice was sharp and cutting; warning too. The waiter's hand went
to the bludgeon and his fingers closed over the handle.
"This is the best killing instrument I ever handled, Bern. It fits
my grip like a glove."
"You wouldn't use it on me, Lorry?"
"Don't tempt me, Bern!"
There was a silence; tense and thrilling.
"I have a bargain to make with you, Bern. Are you ready to hear it?"
"A bargain?"