Only seven were hanged
crime to the irreducible minimum is to make the risks greater than
the recompense. But this man was a living contradiction to the
theory as he was a contrast to ordinary criminal methods and
theories. Therefore he was a greater danger to society, which must
be protected; society, whose mouthpiece I am, deserved to be rid of
him. I, like the jury, did not falter in my duty or responsibilities.
Had there been no risk Abe Lammie would probably have passed by the
temptation to rifle the safe of a certain West End store. Had he
passed by that temptation the watchman would not have lost his life.
It was Lammie's nature to burrow and to attack from unexpected
quarters. He had entered the store and had struck down the watchman
before the latter could protect himself. A mean, brutal blow, it was.
He had approached this job by the tortuous way that many times had
baffled the police. Most criminals would have hidden in the store at
closing time and would have attacked the safe when the watchman was
in a distant part of the building. But this man, Abe Lammie, was
called by his confederates by the name of The Mole. He was indeed
such an animal. He attacked the watchman before he attacked the safe.
His record showed that in one thing only did he resemble his fellow
criminals. He watched a job, as they call a burglary, before he set
to work on it; but even in this he differed from his mates. What he
watched for in any job was not the easiest way of escape, but the
difficulties which he might turn to his advantage.
Lammie did not choose any of the hiding-places this store offered to
burglars. He could have crept under a counter before closing-time.
He might have hidden himself among hanging garments. He might have
stepped into a cupboard. All these are places usually sought by
burglars just on closing-time. But Lammie worked according to his
own theories. He entered the premises through a manhole in the
pavement at the back of the building.
He wore rubber-soled shoes. To make sure that the watchman would
come his way he deliberately upset a glass stand of displayed goods.
When the watchman did appear Lammie knew him. The man had been a
jailbird. Lammie recognized him at once. He had seen him in prison,
and Lammie recollected that this man had tried to speak to him once,
but a warder had intervened. All this passed through The Mole's
brain rapidly. As the watchman stooped to examine the smash The Mole
struck him down.
He left the watchman lying there while he made his way to the safe.
There were several hours at his command since the watchman was out of
the way, and he worked carefully. The police gave him credit for
being a good burglar. His burner went through the door of the safe
quickly and the lock fell into his hands.
The safe contained many things for which he did not have any use.
There were ledgers, cash books, account books, letter files. These
Lammie did not touch until he had pulled on a pair of gloves. He
took two books down to where the watchman lay huddled on the floor.
Lifting the dead man's right hand, he smeared the tips of the fingers
with dust and pressed them on the binding. He had the destroyed lock
of the safe in his pocket and he pressed the tips of the watchman's
fingers against it also. Then he returned to the safe.
He placed the books so that it might be thought they had fallen when
the safe door opened. He put the lock on the floor. Then he delved
into the drawers containing the cash. It was made up in bundles of
notes held together by elastic bands. As the store had a _bureau de
change_, there were a number of foreign notes; but Lammie took only
the British ones. Altogether he had loot in hard cash to the value
of nearly a thousand pounds.
He emptied the silver into a canvas bag which he took from his
pocket. Leaving the safe door open, he rose to his feet and
carefully brushed the floor so that the dust would not tell tales.
His footprints did not trouble him. Flat rubber leaves practically
no mark, and as dozens of people had already passed that way during
the day his footprints could not be distinguished.
With his booty stowed in his pockets and his tools in the leather
pouch inside his waistcoat he went to the jewelry section. Here he
closely inspected the cases with the aid of an electric torch. A
case of gold watches attracted him. He smashed the glass and helped
himself.
In all he took over two dozen watches. They were the best in the
case--goods he could sell quickly and without trouble. He inserted
them into small pouches in his belt specially adapted for articles of
jewelry. He next selected several watches and other goods of lesser
value and carried them to where the watchman's body lay. He put the
articles into the dead man's pockets and--it may have cost him a
heartbeat--he also put a five-pound note in beside them.
He searched the dead body for the keys necessary for what he had
still to do. Having secured the keys, he went to the door at the
back of the premises by which the staff entered. On the back of the
door was a burglar alarm which Lammie disconnected. He opened the
door, peering out as cautiously as the animal after which he was
named. The street was deserted. He shut the door and ran back to
the watchman.
Hoisting the body on his shoulders, he returned to the door. Before
he opened it this time he put the keys back into the watchman's
pocket. He peered out again. All was quiet. He placed the body on
the sidewalk near the gutter. Then he walked away. His burglary and
murder were complete.
He went straight home after having a cup of coffee at a dingy stall
in a mean street. He and his wife occupied a small flat on the
ground floor of a tall, shabby house in a shabby suburb. The flat
consisted of two rooms, one facing the front, the other facing the
back. Lammie occupied the back room, his wife the front. There was
a reason for this, as there was a reason for everything The Mole
dictated. He had thus two means of entrance and exit. The windows
of both rooms were auxiliaries to the doors.
He was awakened in the morning by his wife, who was standing by his
bedside, her hand on his shoulder. In her hand was a newspaper, and
her forefinger pointed to a heavily-typed column.
"Was this you, Abe?"
"Is it about a watchman?"
"Yes."
"It was me."
His wife threw down the newspaper with a shudder. She was a big,
angular woman, who seemed at ordinary times to be incapable of
emotion; but in the presence of her husband she was always nervous.
She obeyed him in everything to the letter, afraid of him, yet with a
hesitating admiration for him. She was afraid on her own behalf,
also, perhaps.
"One day, Abe, you'll make a mistake," she breathed.
"I can't see that day."
"The paper has a piece that says there's nearly a thousand quid in
cash--lifted!"
"That's about right."
"And that the watchman must have let the--the--burglar inside. Some
stuff has been found on the watchman. They say the police think he
may have been in on the job and then there was a quarrel about the
square-up. Is that right?"
"If that's what they say, let 'em say it."
She picked up the jimmy that lay among his tools as he had thrown
them on the floor. A red smear stained one end.
"You wash that off," he commanded, "and gimme breakfast. I'm due
somewhere by midday."
She took the satchel into the kitchenette obediently while he arose
and pulled on his clothes. He ate his breakfast rapidly, not once
glancing at his wife, who stood beside the table attending to him as
a slave serves a master. When he finished eating he got up and took
the tools from the kitchenette and put them into his coat pocket.
His wife watched him all the time, following him about with a dumb
interest that was doglike.
"Abe, I need money."
He whipped out a bundle of notes and handed over one.
"That's a fiver. Get it changed this morning. And look here, if
anybody asks where you got it, say Braid, the 'fence,' gave it you.
Get that?"
"Braid?"
"That's it, Braid. That's what you've gotter say. If nobody asks,
say nothin'. Listen here. I'm goin' to Braid now. I've got
something to sell. I'll be back maybe a bit late. Wait up for
me--and look out!"
"Abe, can't we go away somewhere--abroad, Canada, anywhere? I'm
wearin' out fast with all this waitin', waitin', waitin'. Them
cops----"
"Aw, we'll talk about that later."
"When?"
"After you've spent the fiver."
He went out by the back window and walked swiftly down the lane,
diving into an underground station. The stolen watches were strung
in his belt around his waist; the banknotes were in his pockets. He
was going to get rid of his loot until the time when he could use it
fearlessly. He knew--as had happened in the past--detectives would
visit his apartment home. They often visited his apartments, and as
often he gave account of his movements that satisfied them. He was
quite sure of his ground on this occasion, as usual.
It is a fact, known to the police after much inquiry and
investigation, that few receivers of stolen property make their
arrangements with thieves within the circles of large cities. It is
the same in New York, Chicago, Philadelphia as it is in London,
Glasgow, Liverpool. When a burglar has considerable booty to sell he
goes out of the radius of the city. It may be in the outer suburbs,
or deep in the country; but it is not, as a rule, within the
metropolitan area that he makes his rendezvous with the receiver.
The reason for these rendezvous some distance from the busy centers
is quite simple. Most goods of value have to be disposed of
immediately they are stolen; and, again, if the hue and cry is very
hot, the criminal has always a good jumping-off spot. If all goes
well he can deliver his loot, get his money, and be back in the
center of the city, or among his social haunts, before the police
have time to fix on a clue. These men always have alibis. Their
companions commit perjury habitually. The disposing of jewelry has
become an art.
Abe Lammie's destination was northwest of the city. All his
instincts revolted at the idea of traveling by bus or ordinary
overhead train. Mole-like he went underground. It was not that he
feared being arrested if he showed himself in daylight; the police
never moved so quickly as that. It was not that he regretted murder
and wished to hide from his fellow men; he had used violence
previously. The real objection he had to moving on the surface of
the earth was the key to his whole existence. The trade--or
profession--of burglar fitted him as closely as his skin. He was by
nature a subterranean mammal, a shunner of the sun.
He had no parents of whom he could say, "Here is my mother, there my
father." Of the former he had never heard or known a thing. Of the
latter all he knew was that he was a prisoner somewhere, held by his
own natural enemies, the police. His recollections did not go
farther back than the time when, as a boy, he stood alone in the dock
and was sentenced to a period of detention in a reformatory. He had
not seen his father since that day. Not that it mattered much, for
neither father nor son had any attachment for the other.
But even in these far-off days Abe Lammie escaped from the
institution. How? By digging under the walls. He had remained
underground ever since--a mole. In appearance he had a distinct
resemblance to the animal. His arms were short, his fingers were
stubby, like claws. His neck vertebræ were solidified. His chest
was wide and powerful, his legs long and muscular. He walked as if
he were swimming through earth. He made night his day and day his