Three sevens A detective story
The warden did change his tune this time.
“What was that,” he demanded soothingly, “you said about trials, and
so forth? Are you really aiming to----”
“Hold court? Yes.”
“Where?”
“Here in the prison.”
“With you as judge! Look here, Mr.--Masters----”
“Stop,” Craig ordered softly. “There’ll be a jury. Say what you have
to say to them.”
That perfect night of great events in the isolated little world of
San Pedro Prison had dissolved magically, into a perfect dawn--a rift
of pink clouds high up in the sky where the stars still lingered, and
then a shifting of purple light to blue, and, after that, a gradual
transfusion through this blue light of a billion motes of gold, of
crimson; and then, there was the first slant of the sun itself. It
was as if all that had happened was the first act of a play, staged
by a master stage director; or, better yet, it was as if this dawn
had been designed especially for the isolated little prison--not only
a Sunday dawn, but a Dawn of Glory.
So it must have seemed to many in San Pedro this day. For the rumor
and quiver of great things had been running through the prison all
the night, and the expectation of still greater things impending. It
was curious--the silence! Silence, despite the fact that the night
itself had brought permission for the prisoners to talk all they
wanted, to sing--play such musical instruments as they might possess.
But the silence was such that almost the only thing heard at all
as the sun came up was the clang of the chapel bell like a call to
church; and afterward, the moan and chant of the chapel pipe organ,
where Zabrewski, a musical genius gone wrong, improvised, and tried
to express, and did express, the resurrection of his soul.
Only a few of the former keepers were on duty. The places of most of
the others had been taken by men selected from among the prisoners
themselves--old men mostly, and yet with something unfamiliar about
them. And armed--all of them armed. There wasn’t going to be any
prison riot to spoil everything--not at this stage of the game.
This new force of guards went about the usual work in much the usual
way. They announced that there was to be a new deal, that each man in
the prison would get a new hearing. Also they announced, in divers
speech, but all of it clear, that the inmate who tried to start
anything on his own account was apt to be buried at the starting
place.
Gradually, however, the situation revealed itself. Inmate No. 3777,
“Three Sevens” they called him for short, had made a successful
break. But, instead of turning this to his own account, he had
decided to let them all in on his good thing. There were forty-eight
hours in which to carry the plan through--what was left of it, that
is, for much had been accomplished already--committees appointed and
sworn in, the first big detachments of parole men sent away. “Parole
men” because they had given their word to do nothing to arouse
suspicion, were under parole to break no law, to do their best to
become regular citizens again--in short, not to abuse the liberty
given them.
“Favoritism!”
There were already some whispers of favoritism. Not many, though.
And they grew less as the day advanced. There was something too
impressive, too suggestive about all this of the final Judgment Day.
And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God; and
the books were opened and the dead were judged out of those
things which were written in the books, according to their
works.
That was the spirit. And Zabrewski, the musical genius, was
expressing this on the pipe organ, too, whenever there was a
lull--whenever the jury was debating whether it ought to send a man
back to his cell again or turn him loose. All these sinners assembled
there and trying to do justice in the sight of the Lord on this
Sunday morning--it would have been enough to make an angel weep. And
then, right in the midst of it all, it was as if an angel was there.
The chapel was filled with convicts at the time. The guards were
around. On the platforms sat Three Sevens, otherwise and just for
himself alone, Daniel Craig. To one side of Craig, the jury--furtive,
wise, and wonderstruck. To the other side, the prison clerk with the
prison books and records, showing who was who, and the crimes each
man was charged with at the time of his sentence.
There was dim light in the chapel, although the windows had been
opened for the first time in twenty years and the sunlight was
pouring in. And there, quite suddenly, right in the full drench
of one of these slanting bars of gold light, the angel. No! Not a
regular angel, but a girl who looked like one--bashful, baffled, yet
fearless.
Perhaps she may have shed a tear or two, at that. She was very
human--very feminine, too, although dressed in riding clothes--short
skirt, spurred boots. But her hair was down her back, in a single,
heavy schoolgirl tress. She had been wearing a flat-brimmed Stetson,
but she had taken this off as if in deference to her surroundings,
and her hair was yellow and it shimmered in the sun. A wonderful
picture she made standing there, with her profile tilted up--blue
eyes, pink lips slightly parted.
So intense had been the interest in that greater picture of what was
unrolling in the chapel that for what seemed a long time she had
remained all but unseen. For there was a prisoner at the bar.
It was an old man whom the other prisoners had nicknamed “Uncle
Josh.” So he looked, even with his hair and whiskers shorn, upward of
sixty, sloping shoulders, a kindly but belligerent eye.
“Turn the old geezer loose.”
This from juryman No. 6.
“He maimed a neighbor for killin’ his hogs,” whispered the clerk.
“He won’t do it again.”
“Neither will his neighbor.”
The jury took a silent vote, signaled the vote to the judge.
“Free!” said the judge.
Uncle Josh reeled a little. His mouth snapped open, then shut, then
open again, like a turtle taking the air, but not a word, not a
murmur. He brought a gnarled knuckle to his eye. His head drooped.
And, all this time, that genius Zabrewski wringing the heart out of
the organ with _tremolo_ and _vox humana_.
Then, just as a friend or two started to lead old Uncle Josh away,
about every one saw her--the girl.
There was a gasp, like that of an air brake on a train; and it was
as if a real air brake had been applied to the march of things. For
there was a dead halt. Even Zabrewski saw her. His back was turned.
But there was a little mirror hung up in front of him that gave him a
slanting view of the hall.
It was Craig who spoke up. He was the man to do it. He felt as if the
whole court--or congregation--centered its voice in his.
“Who--whom was it you wished to see?”
The words spoken at the great crises in the affairs of men are
usually small and banal like that.
The girl’s voice rang out sweet and clear, but with a slight
huskiness of emotion in it.
“My father!”
There was a craning of necks. This was interesting. Who of the
inmates of San Pedro, pray, could have a daughter like this? It was a
question even more interesting than those of how the girl had come to
be here, where she came from.
Eddie, the Yegg, wearing a uniform several sizes too big for him,
here shuffled forward, dragging one foot slightly, as is the way of
one who at some time or other has worn a cavalry saber or a ball
and chain. But Eddie knew the way of courts. He tried to speak as a
regular court attendant should.
“If it please your honor----”
It was terrible to hear Eddie speak aloud. He had conversed so long
in whispers, inside of prison and out, that his voice sounded fragile
and shaky, like big, mere balloons of speech, blown up by the breath
of the man.
“What is it?” Craig asked.
“I was watchin’ the gate,” labored Eddie. “She come--asks fer her
dad----”
Eddie stopped. He had done his part--all he could, at least. Craig
had turned to the girl. There was a whisper among the jury.
“We turn her old man loose, whatever he done.”
And Craig felt easier for having heard this.
“What is your father’s name?” he asked.
For the first time the girl showed a hint of alarm, of fright. She
threw a quick glance about her, brought her eyes back to the man on
the platform as to the one thing, the one person, to which she could
cling.
“Gracie,” she said. “I am Miss Gracie.” And, without further ado,
there was the prison clerk looking through the books for the name
of Gracie, but quite sure that there was no such name there--unless
it was the name of a dead man, or some one who had been transferred
elsewhere more than a year before. An awkward situation.
“He was to have got here this morning,” said the girl.
“Oh!”
But Craig was forcing his mind to stick to the facts.
“This is Sunday,” he said.
“I know.”
“And they were bringing him here, to-day?”
Did the girl understand? There was something she didn’t understand.
She gasped the one word:
“Yes!”
“But they don’t receive inmates----”
Craig was going to say that they didn’t receive inmates on Sunday, or
visitors either, but the girl cut in on him:
“Inmates!”
“Yes, but----”
“My father’s the warden,” she said.
“Warden Green?”
“Warden Gracie! The newly appointed warden. The governor--isn’t this
San Pedro? What has happened? _Where’s my father?_”
Her voice was lifted on what, for want of a better word, may be
called a turbulence. Not much of a turbulence, at the start, but a
swirling riot of sounds subdued--a flow of speech, a resumption of
breathing, the sounds of movement. On this, for a moment or so, her
voice had as it were floated like something bright on the rising
water of a muddy overflow, then sank in it.
“_Gracie, the reformer!_”
“_He’s on the way wit’ a bunch of fresh bulls!_”
“_Good night!_”
And other expressions that were incoherent. Not violent as yet,
but hinting of danger as if the muddy overflow might rise, take on
strength of a current, and become a flood.
Craig caught this feeling. So, most likely, did the girl. She turned,
somewhat as if she would have left the place. But others may have
caught the feeling, too--that feeling that was neither enmity,
precisely, nor yet desire for evil. A subtle feeling that a change
was coming over the face of things--a change for the worse. A crack
in the iron chain of discipline. Caged jungle beasts that have got a
whiff of blood.
The girl shrank back. The turbulence assumed something of the nature
of a growl.
“Fellers,” a shrill voice intoned, “we’re in danger here.”
“Order!” shouted Craig.
But he was too late.
“And I moves,” shrilled the voice, “we take this gal as a hostage!”
CHAPTER V
“YOUR WORK!”
It was right then that Eddie had his moment of greatness. It comes to
every man once in his lifetime, and blessed is he who is ready for
it when it does come. Eddie was ready. Eddie may have wondered what
his own particular schooling was for those nights when he had stood
with revolver ready, watching, waiting, every nerve trained for quick
violence. This was it.
“_Bang!_”
A flash, a report, a strand of smoke; and there was the owner of the
shrill voice lunging up like a man who reaches for a butterfly.
There was the picture of Eddie himself--_Rip Van Winkle_ awaking
from his sleep, but shorn of hair and beard; _Rip_ as Joe Jefferson
presented him, mostly eyes, tragic, but stirred and amused.
“The court,” said Craig, “is adjourned. The guards will maintain
order.”
All this as if it hadn’t been swift, as if it had been arranged,
a little stiff and formal, yet dignified, and called for by the
circumstances. The butterfly chaser now collapsing, supported by his