Chapter IV: Part 4

His knowledge of the district guided him towards the keystone of his crime and supplied him with an alibi that seemed proof against suspicion. He had called at the dingy coffee-house deliberately to give information to ears that were always open to receive and act on stray news. To this mean eating-house came characters he had known in his unregenerate days--men who trod the shady paths of life, youths who lived by lawlessness. Clausen himself was of the locality. He knew the suspects who frequented the side-streets and roamed the dim by-ways, seeking like wolves, the opportunity to plunder.

He had timed his visit to the restaurant with care, and had sat at a table reading his newspaper and exchanging a spasmodic conversation with the proprietor, knowing that the visitors would come who could make use of his words. He was perfectly aware that the two men who sat at the next table were thieves, convicted and hardened in roguery. He had spoken for their benefit. The chances were a thousand to one that they had inwardly smiled at his seeming innocence as they listened to his information. Simple people are the carriers of news. What burglar could turn his back on a proposition where the details were handed to him so guilelessly?

So Frederick Clausen argued, knowing the district and the men. Their minds were less subtle than his. They would act true to type. He had left something in the japanned box for them, a reward for their trouble. They would take the postal orders, even if they did not take the cheques, and thus they would be convicted.

As he lay in bed, Clausen went over every point. He had made things easy for the burglars. He had undone the catch of the study window, he had left the japanned box unlocked. Even if they did not come, he was still safe. The chloroform he had used on the occupants of the house would work off before morning. They would have heard nothing, and the released window-catch would tell that a burglary had been committed from the outside.

He estimated that the burglars would come within three hours after he had taken the money, if they came at all. The time passed slowly, and he was conscious of a tinge of anxiety. He heard the public clocks strike the hours. Dawn was not far off when his slumbering senses were jerked into action. Somewhere in the house a bell was ringing.

He sat up in bed. What was the bell? With an exclamation of irritation he lay down again.

"It's the scullery-maid's alarm clock," he muttered. "I'd forgotten she uses one to awaken her. I wonder what is the time."

His hand was under the pillow, searching for his watch, when he suddenly became tense. The bell had ceased to ring, but another noise came to his ears. It was from the ground floor. At first the sound was a confused jumble, then what seemed to be the smashing of glass and the rumbling of men's voices. Clausen's heart beat quickly. The burglars had arrived. His theories had worked out after all. Was this not proof of his ability to gauge men and their actions accurately? A glow of triumph swept over him.

And then, out of the stillness that followed the noise, there came other sounds. He heard feet on the corridor pass his door. He lay down and drew the bedclothes up to his chin. Voices were talking. Someone was knocking at a door. More voices added to the confused sounds. He heard the sound of feet on the corridor again--more feet, heavy feet. Someone knocked at his door. He lay still and did not answer.

The knock was repeated. A voice called his name. He did not answer. The handle of the door turned. A light flashed. He lay still, breathing regularly, feigning sleep.

Fingers touched his shoulders and shook him. He opened his eyes, pretending to be startled, and called out in well-acted alarm:

"What's that? Who are you?"

"It's all right, sir," said a policeman who was standing at his bedside. "You've had a visit from burglars. We came in through the study window after them, and the maid told me this was your room. You're Mr. Holson's secretary, aren't you?"

"Yes! Burglars! In here! Where are they? What's to be done?"

He was sitting up now, rubbing his eyes, running his fingers through his hair, apparently dazed.

"It's all right, sir, don't be alarmed. The burglars didn't come this length----"

"Burglars! The scoundrels! It's the money they're after--the money in the box--two thousand pounds--the society's money to be paid out this morning. This is terrible."

"Better get dressed quickly, sir. I've awakened young Mr. Holson and told him to waken his father. You must all sleep soundly in this house not to have heard us. Will you please come downstairs quickly? We want your information."

"I'll come now."

Clausen leaped out of bed, intending to snatch up his gown; but as he put his hand out he hesitated. Snuggled on the top of the gown as it lay on the chair was the lazy black cat, the household pet, curled up on the soft cloth which formed for it an ideal resting-place.

The black cat for luck! Clausen's mind was quick to take advantage of the cat's choice of a bed. The dawn was beginning to struggle through the curtains, giving a strange coldness to the room. He shivered and turned to the policeman.

"I might as well dress. A secretary's work is never done, and I may as well get up for the day. Will you give me a few minutes?"

"Oh, I'll wait, sir. My mate is downstairs on guard. We'll want Mr. Holson and you to go over the study with us. Come down when you are ready."

The constable moved into the corridor, leaving the door ajar. Clausen heard his employer's son calling to his father, who answered drowsily. The house was awaking jerkily. Clausen began to dress, smiling towards the black cat asleep on his gown. What could have been better? The animal must have slipped into his room when he was washing the soot from his hands. He stroked its neck as he passed. His gown was safe under that cat.

As Clausen dressed hurriedly, he heard Mr. Holson and his son stumble along the corridor on their way downstairs. The policeman was with them. Mr. Holson was talking in half-awake, grumbling accents, coughing and groaning as he moved. Clausen did not wash himself, nor shave. He hurried down at their heels, pulling his jacket on as he went.

All the lights in the house were lit by this time. The servants were in the hall. Clausen joined the investigators. He found his employer at the foot of the stairs, on the brink of a collapse, supported by his son and the policeman.

"Mr. Holson," cried Clausen, "this is terribly unfortunate, sir! How can we face the club members? Don't you worry, sir. We may be able to arrange a loan from the bank----"

Mr. Holson waved his hand feebly and groaned.

"Mr. Holson is a bit seedy," explained the constable. "I think he had better get back to bed--or, wait, there he goes--better lay him down here and fetch some water. He's going to faint."

Clausen ran to get water, and when he returned they were carrying his employer back to bed. They did not take him into his own bedroom, however, but into Clausen's, which was the nearest at the top of the stairs. They laid him on Clausen's bed, and Clausen bathed his brow and hands.

Holson's son sank into a chair and stared vacantly around. Clausen was the only person besides the policeman who kept his head.

"It is not surprising that Mr. Holson, poor man, takes it like this," he said sympathetically. "Two thousand pounds gone! I hope you have got the burglars, constable. Have you found a clue? How many burglars were there? It is a wonder they did not kill us in our sleep. It must have been men who knew we took the money from the bank yesterday----"

"Oh, that's all right, Mr. Clausen," said the policeman. "We've got the best of clues. We've got the burglars--two of them."

"Is that so? Ah, that is smart! Caught in the act, I hope. And the money--did they have time to dispose of it, or have you recovered it too?"

The policeman was paying attention to Mr. Holson, so that he did not answer then. The philanthropist was showing signs of recovery and had opened his eyes, then tried to sit up.

"Be careful, sir," cautioned Clausen. "Take it easy. Everything is all right. The constable says the burglars have been caught. Did you say you had recovered the money, constable?"

"That's a bit that puzzles my mate and me," replied the policeman thoughtfully as he wiped the inside of his helmet with his handkerchief. "We've got the burglars all right. The money wasn't taken by them, sir, because me and my mate got them before they opened the escritoire. And yet, when Mr. Holson took the box out just now, most of the money was gone----"

"They must have hid it before you came on the scene," cried Clausen.

"We were on the scene practically all night," said the constable. "You didn't know, Mr. Clausen, that Mr. Holson informed our station yesterday about the money being here. He asked us to keep watch during the night. There are bad characters around the district, and me and my mate were on special duty. With Mr. Holson's consent we fixed a trap last night. You didn't know about it, because you were out until late in the evening----"

"A trap!" cried Clausen. "What was the trap?"

"We laid down an alarm bell that rang in Mr. Holson's bedroom the moment the burglars stepped over the window-sill of the study. In this way he was to know if, and when, any burglars came. In the meantime we were to keep watch from outside--you know, patrolling about in our rubbered boots. The idea was that the bell would bring Mr. Holson down with his son, and we would have the thief, or thieves, back and front. Well, the bell rang, but nobody came down. Did you hear the bell, Mr. Clausen?"

"No," replied Clausen, lying coolly. "I did not hear any bell."

"That's funny, for Mr. Holson and his son say the same thing, yet me and my mate heard it from the lane at the back of the house. And the housekeeper says she did not hear it either. We had a lot of trouble to get Mr. Holson and his son awake, and the housekeeper too. They've all got headaches and--it's funny."

He put his helmet on carefully, looking from one to the other. Frederick Clausen stood motionless, the dripping sponge in his ice-cold hand.

The policeman's eye wandered round the room, resting finally on the fat, black cat sleeping on the dressing-gown on the chair.

"Everybody seems to sleep well in this house," he grinned. "Even the cat. And a cat is generally scared of us when we enter a house. This one is unconcerned----"

He stepped to the chair and laid his hand on the animal, stroking it gently.

"Look here," he said. "This cat has its nose stuck into the pocket of the gown----"

His laugh ceased suddenly. With a jerk he lifted the cat from its soft bed. It hung dangling in his grip, limp and unconscious. A faint, not unpleasant odour drifted through the room.

Next moment the policeman dropped the cat and plunged his hand into the pocket of the gown, bringing forth the handkerchief and the small phial, the cork of which stuck awry from the neck.

He turned his eyes on Frederick Clausen; and Frederick Clausen knew that, in spite of all his precautions, in spite of legends to the contrary, the black cat had brought, not luck, but evidence against him which was at once undeniable and convicting.

It was a matter of detail from the suspicion to the search of the room, the finding of the stolen money, and then the charge. After that, the cell.

THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE SIXTH CELL

"And _now_," said the Governor as he took a sip of the whisky and soda that was near his elbow, "we will continue our examination of criminals, and their personal strengths and weaknesses, by going on to the next story, if you will permit."

"Go on," said the visitor.

"Before I do so," said the Governor, "might I invite you to make yourself more at ease? You have your overcoat on, and these gloves you are wearing----"

"The overcoat may be discarded, but not the gloves," smiled the visitor, who pulled off his coat with a quick movement that surprised the Governor by its rapidity. "I can shoot quite as well with my gloves as with bare hands. And I notice that your desk is of highly polished mahogany."

"I was thinking of your personal comfort, I assure you," returned the Governor. "As for any finger-prints, a man of your courage would not allow a small matter like that to stop him----"

"Your diagnosis is right in that instance. If I thought it worth while to take off my gloves I would do so. I don't. Come, the night is passing and you seem to want to talk for some time. Why mention my gloves?"

"The sight of kid gloves reminds me of the case of Daniel Callow, whose story I am about to give you."

The Governor slipped a throat tablet into his mouth.

* * * * *

The case of Daniel Callow (he said) leaves me in a quandary. Ought he to go into the Intellectual section or into the Intelligent grade? Perhaps you will aid me to determine.

Consider Daniel Callow just in the act of closing the heavy door of the bank safe and switching out his electric torch. He put the torch into his pocket. After listening for a moment, he lifted the handbag in which he had packed the loot he had just stolen and stepped towards the door. He was wearing kid gloves. On his feet were goloshes drawn over his shoes. He opened the door and looked out. There was no one about. He closed the door behind him softly. Next moment he was walking away with his loot.

It had been easy. It had been simple. It had been without a hitch. He boarded a bus and went home.

As he entered the semi-detached, bijou, suburban residence of which he was tenant, the dining-room clock struck eight. Daniel Callow smiled to himself. He was home on the stroke of the hour, as he had been for a week. He heard the maid setting his supper in the dining-room. She came out as he closed the hall wardrobe in which he had put his bag and overcoat.

"Did you clean the aerial, Annie?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. I've got it as bright as a new wire, but I didn't have time to wind it up."

"I'll do that after supper. Have the rose-trees come?"

"Yes, sir. I laid 'em out on the plot where you dug the holes for 'em."

"That was right. I think you can go now, Annie. I won't require you any more to-night."

He heard her go out by the back door while he was at supper. When he had finished eating his meal he rose and pulled on a pair of heavy boots. He went out to the garden and wound up his aerial. He took out the bag of notes and silver, extracted a handful or so of the latter currency, and deposited the bag in one of the holes in the rose-plot. On the top of the bag he planted a rose, stamping the bush well down. He planted others also. This work had to be done before darkness, but it did not occupy him more than ten minutes. After this he returned to the house, took off his garden boots, pulled on a pair of slippers, and lifted his head-phones. The time signal was just being broadcast.

Now, of the three types of criminals, we may take it that the lowest are those who become law-breakers because it is their instinct. The next above them are those who, while not making a habit of crime, side-step once or so. Then there are those who are among the Intellectuals, the professionals. In this class are those who have never been caught. Daniel Callow was trying to graduate from the second to the top class in one step.

When a man belongs to a fast set, and spends his money as if his annual income was a month's salary, he is heading for one of two places--the Bankruptcy Court or the debtors' prison. A bank clerk cannot live like a landed proprietor with immense wealth; but it was "the thing" in the set to which Daniel Callow and his wife belonged that responsibility should come after pleasure.

Callow had married his wife, Irene, because she belonged to the set. She never knew what salary he received at the bank. She never asked. The night-club life was what brought them together. It held them together. During the day Daniel was at his counter at the bank. During the night he and Irene were generally at banker with a count. In their club, counts were common and honourables were not even remarked on. Debts were usual; but there was this difference. The debts of the counts and the honourables were paid when pressure was applied. They had means. Daniel Callow had none.

It was because he saw the Bankruptcy Court or the debtors' prison in front of him that Daniel Callow had thought out his scheme. For him it was simple. To an ordinary burglar it would have been daring.

There was no man in the bank whose efficiency was greater. He had also earned a reputation for punctuality that was a criterion of the establishment. Every morning he was at his place before the other clerks, even before the manager. The keys of the safe were deposited every evening by the manager at the local police station. Daniel called for them every morning, and had the books and ledgers out on the desks by the stroke of the hour. What was easier than to take a wax impression of the keys as he handled them? There was only one that mattered, and it Daniel had left in the safe door. This was part of his plan.

Sitting with his head-phones on, by his fire, Daniel Callow smiled as he thought of the reputation he had earned. How was the manager to know that he had earned it with a purpose in view? He had been early every morning so that his great idea might come to fruition.

The main part of the plan, however, was that which dealt with covering his trail. He had advised Irene to pay a visit to some friends of their circle who had rented a house at the coast. Irene never asked anything about money so long as Daniel provided it. She did not bother about finance. You can find her type easily enough. The midnight set don't trouble about the next morning. They have no next mornings. So, from the whirl of the West End dance-club, Irene went off to another kind of whirl at the seaside. Daniel stayed at home and went to the bank as usual.

During Irene's absence he came home every night just in time for supper. He dined at the club about six. He reached home about eight. The maid then went off duty--the plan on which he and Irene had agreed. Every morning Daniel went to the bank at his usual hour, or, if anything, slightly earlier. He had that wax impression of the key to get. He got it. After that the remainder of his idea was simple.

He was under no disillusionment as to what would happen when the burglary was discovered. He knew that detectives would be called in. He knew that there would be an inquiry. There might even be a search. Callow was no professional thief. He did not attempt to run off with the swag. He had nowhere to run to, for that matter. He knew no "fence" who would hide it. He wanted no accomplice. Alone in the house, he had thought of the rose-bed in the garden. Even if detectives came to his house? He would sit tight and watch his roses grow. Ah, there was a brain for you!

Theoretically he was right. The first desire of the ordinary criminal is to escape, to flee from the scene of his crime, and to hide his proceeds in a place some distance from where he himself lurks.

Daniel Callow reversed both these ordinary rules, which are so well known to the police. He not only kept his loot in his garden, he went a step farther. He discovered the burglary for the benefit of the staff next morning.

When the manager arrived, he was told how the keys of the safe were found in the door, how the safe had been rifled, how several thousands of pounds had been taken, how Daniel Callow had sent for the police at once. The manager complimented Daniel, whose story was backed by the cleaners.

The police took down statements, examined the safe door, the keys, the door knobs, the floor, the windows. They did not find a clue. The deficiency in cash was made up by hurried loans from other branches of the bank, so that the public might never guess a theft had taken place. The staff was sworn to secrecy.

In the afternoon, every member of the staff was called in turn into the manager's room. When Daniel Callow was sent for, he entered without fear.

Next to the manager sat an elderly man, who was introduced as Detective Morat. Daniel told himself that he had never seen anyone more unlike a detective. Here was no rat-faced, keen sleuth. Morat had a big reputation, but he confessed, after hearing Daniel's story, that the whole thing was a mystery. Daniel had expected to be put through a cross-examination. Morat did not bother with any cross-examination. He merely sat smiling, his big face beaming with kindliness.

When he left the bank that night, Daniel Callow did not go straight home, but called at the night-club. He had a hand or two at cards, listened to the latest stories of the set, indulged in a few dances, and then went his way. The maid was waiting for him, though it was long past his usual time of arrival.

"A gentleman has been here for you twice," she announced.

"What was his name?"

"He wouldn't give any."

"What was he like?"

"Looked like a policeman to me. He asked when you came home last night, and when you usually came."

"You told him, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's right. Sorry I'm late, Annie. You may go."

When the maid was gone, Daniel Callow sat down and began to think. Was this part of a game the police were playing? Did they suspect him? This was the beginning of the period he had anticipated, the period of suspicion and investigation. Probably every other member of the staff was undergoing the same thing. He went over his acts, and came to the confident conclusion that he had nothing to fear. If the police suspected him, why did they not come and search his house? Even if they did----? He could wait his time. The money was safe enough under his rose-tree.

The following morning, as he stood behind the counter of the bank, he saw the thick form of Detective Morat enter and go through to the manager's office. In a little while Daniel was summoned to the inner office. He went without a tremor.

"Mr. Callow," said the manager, "we want you to tell us again just how you came to discover that a burglary had been committed. Detective Morat is not quite sure of one or two points. He is correcting the statements of the staff which were made yesterday."

Daniel told them once more, word for word. He had his evidence all ready for them. The cleaners could back him up. Detective Morat sat smiling as he listened.

"What time did you get home that night?" he asked.

"Eight o'clock exactly."

"Did you stay in all evening? Didn't you go up to your club?"

"I stayed in. I was listening to the broadcast."

Morat smiled again and rose to his feet.

"I've an idea the cleaners must know the man who did the job," he said. "By the way, Mr. Callow, that was a fine programme we had on the wireless that night. I've got a one-valve set at home, and I heard Lord Halford's speech from the London studio as clear as a bell. Scientific stuff. Good, wasn't it?"

"You must be mistaken," replied Daniel Callow coldly. "There was no such speech the evening you refer to."

Detective Morat looked disappointed.

"Maybe it was the previous night," he murmured. "All right, Mr. Callow. We won't trouble you again."

Daniel went back to his counter, and his eyes glimmered as he took his stand.

"The fool!" he muttered. "Calls himself a detective, and tries such a clumsy one! He wanted to see if I was really listening-in. Oh, and that's what they call a first-class detective!"

He went home later than usual that evening, for it was the maid's night off and he would have found no meal ready for him. He dined and supped in the West End.

When he arrived home, a strange sense of uneasiness swept over him. This sense struck him as soon as he switched on the hall light. He was suddenly seized with the suspicion that the house had been entered.

He went into the dining-room. All was in order. He went through every room in the house. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed, yet he knew someone had been there. He could have sworn this, though he could not have proved it. He examined every cupboard, looked at the carpets, watched for the slightest disarrangement of the beds. He saw no sign of strange hands, yet every cupboard, every carpet, every bed shrieked a warning at him.

Was this needless fear? Was it super-nervousness? Daniel Callow was too blasé to be afraid, too confident to be nervous. He experienced no pricks of conscience. He had planned the theft too carefully to leave a clue, but his home had been searched. Who had done this? There was only one answer. Morat!

He hurried out to the garden. The rose-plot was undisturbed, the tall rose-bush which he had planted over the loot was there as he had placed it in the centre of the flower-bed. It was surrounded by the other roses.

The light from his small drawing-room flooded this limited area and threw his shadow across the tiny dark lawn. He was in the act of stretching out his hand towards the rose-bush when he drew back quickly. Did he hear a sound from the fence at the bottom of the garden?

He stood still, watching. The sound was not repeated. He lit a cigarette, and walked slowly up towards the pole he had erected for his aerial, pretending to tinker with the pulley by which he could lower the wire. In reality he was watching the fence. All was quiet. He went indoors.

He lit the gas fire of the drawing-room, and sat down with his head-phones on his knee. He did not draw the curtains. If anyone was watching him from the garden fence, that person would have a full view. Daniel did not wish to hinder the spy. He would give him plenty of rope, but nothing to report.

All the same, as he put the head-phones on he was not listening to the musical programme. He was thinking hard. Were the police after him? Morat had shown his suspicions when he made the clumsy remark about the speech. Morat was behind the search that had been made of the house: for that they had waited until the maid was out. Well, he was proof against their lumbering methods. The maid could prove that the rose-trees were on order several days before they arrived. The maid could prove that she had been instructed to clean the aerial. He himself had proved that he spent the evening listening-in. There was not a clue left at the bank pointing in his direction. The manager had placed entire reliance on him in every way.

It had become a game of patience. Daniel knew that the police often adopted a wearing-down method of tactics when they were suspicious and longed for evidence. He was proof against that also. He would attend to his roses and wear down all suspicion. It was a game at which two could play. All he had to do was to be more upright in his actions than ever, more diligent in business than he had ever been. There was plenty of time. His roses would grow.

The wireless programme had just concluded when a knock sounded on the front door, and the bell rang sharply. Daniel Callow did not hesitate, though his instinct told him who was on the other side of the door. He opened it without a fear. A man stood facing him.

"I think you know me, Mr. Daniel Callow?"

"Oh, you are Detective Morat, aren't you?"

"Yes."

The two eyed each other steadily. Morat smiled and stroked his smooth, plump jaw.

"May I have a word with you, Mr. Callow--about the burglary?"

"Certainly. Come inside."

Question and answer had come without hesitation, one after the other; both men appeared to be on the best of terms. They went into the drawing-room. Daniel Callow was perfectly cool. Not a flutter showed as he offered a chair to his visitor.

"Sorry my wife is not at home just now, Mr. Morat. You find me handicapped somewhat."

"It doesn't matter. I came to see _you_."

Morat sat down, smiling still as he looked kindly towards Callow. His fat fingers fiddled with his hat, which he held on his knees. He looked into the fire thoughtfully.

"Well?" asked Daniel quietly.

Morat asked him one or two questions--trivial questions about the routine of work at the bank--and pondered the answers so long that his silence became an irritant. The ticking of the clock on the mantel-piece sounded very loud. The hissing of the gas fire became like the noise of escaping steam from a locomotive. It took Daniel Callow all the restraint of which he was capable to endure the menacing silence between the slow questions. He felt like shouting at Morat to get on with it; but he held himself in check. This was the wearing-down process in action, he thought. All right, let Morat try it. And then, suddenly, before he was aware, the detective's tactics changed. He leaned forward and pointed a stubby forefinger straight at Callow.

"We are on the track of a suspect!"

"Who?" asked Daniel, without blinking.

"You!"

It was like the report of a pistol. But Daniel Callow met the accusation with the coolness of a dueller.

"I know that. You searched my house to-night."

Detective Morat withdrew his finger and sank back in his chair.

"I had two men on that job," he said.

"I knew it the moment I entered."

"You've planted that money somewhere!"

"If you think so, find it."

"I'll find it."

They looked at each other curiously. The smile had gone off Morat's face, but a smile had come on that of Daniel Callow. He knew where he was now. The gage had been thrown down.

"You are a smart young man, Callow. You have worked well at the bank. The manager upholds you. He wouldn't listen to my suggestions. Yes, you're smart. But you'll make a mistake. I've met your kind before. And I've beaten them."

"Is it part of a detective's job to insult people in their own homes?" asked Callow quietly.

"It is a detective's job to get evidence."

"By these methods?"

"By the methods he thinks fit the occasion. Are you personally opposed to my methods?"

"Intensely so."

"Then you know your remedy."

"What is it?"

"Start a law case against me, claiming damages for what I have said."

"I'll think about that."

"But you won't do it."

"How do you know?"

"You daren't."

"You think so?"

"Positively."

"Why?"

Detective Morat leaned forward again and looked into Daniel Callow's face.

"I'll tell you. Because you are in a bad hole, Callow. You have been spending money too freely at your midnight clubs--you and your wife. You are in the hands of moneylenders. You are living above your income. You are in debt all round."

"Has that anything to do with you?"

"It has."

"In what way?"

"In this way. You are in a hole for want of money. Your wife doesn't even know your salary----"

"You leave her out of it! How do you know she doesn't know my income?"

"My men have asked her."

"What?"

"One of my men has seen her within the last twenty-four hours. He presented a bill on behalf of a firm, and asked for payment. She told him to give it to you. He asked her if she was sure it would be paid. She said you always paid. She does not know that you have unpaid bills in your pocket now, bills you cannot hope to pay on your income. I have not told your employers this--yet."

Daniel Callow shrugged his shoulders, but he was uncomfortable. He knew what would happen if his manager found out that he was so overwhelmingly in debt.

"Will you pay this bill if I present it to you?" asked Morat remorselessly, laying an envelope in Callow's lap.

"I can't."

"I knew that. And before you could start an action against me I could have you declared bankrupt. You know what that means."

"It means I would lose my job, but your bills would not be paid. I don't see that would be any gain to you."

"It might. It would give me a chance to complete the evidence I seek."

"If you are so sure I stole the money, why don't you arrest me, or detain me?"

"Because I want to produce the money as evidence, and I want you to tell me where you have deposited it. If I had you arrested or detained you would close your mouth. I haven't anything solid enough to go to a jury."

"It will take you a hundred years to prove I am the burglar."

"Not so long, I think."

"Well, I have had enough of your insults. I do not care to endure it any longer. If you have finished, you can go. And don't forget, I'll report this to the bank to-morrow morning and ask for protection from your uncouth methods."

Morat rose and left.

When he had gone, Daniel Callow smiled grimly to himself. He had met the famous detective, and he had beaten him in the battle of wits. Instead of Morat wearing him down, he had worn Morat down. Had the detective had anything like a clue, he would have arrested him, or detained him. His admissions proved that he was acting on nothing more than suspicion. Suspicion didn't get men arrested; and, if it did, it didn't get them convicted.

What had brought Morat to the house at all? It was clear. He had come to make Callow commit himself by a stray word. He had come to test him by a deliberate accusation. This was the thing to guard against. Detectives often got their victims by a swift surprise. An unexpected slip, an unguarded remark, had sent many a man to prison. To refuse to be surprised into admission was the cue. So long as he remained cool, never being flurried or agitated, Daniel Callow believed he was safe.

He saw his way, too, to cut the feet from Morat in the matter of the bill. He would go to a money-lender and borrow. The day would come, after the burglary had passed into the limbo of unsolved thefts, when he could pay back the money. If he was able to show that the bill had been paid, he need not fear Morat.

He got the money and paid the bill next day, and he interviewed the manager, asking protection from Morat. In this he was successful. The manager promised that Morat's crude methods would be stopped. He was indignant that his smartest man should be so insulted. Daniel Callow came out of the manager's office feeling that he had scored again.

There was only one item of the burglary that Callow had retained in his possession that would have given him away. He got rid of it that evening as he went home. This was the new key he had had made for the front door of the bank. He flung it into the Thames.

Detective Morat came no longer to the bank. A week passed. Nobody was arrested. Nothing happened. The staff grew easier in their minds. Daniel Callow's wife returned from her holiday. They went to the night-club together, as of yore. They had their fun. They mixed with the members, old and new, all belonging to the set. Life resumed its care-free jollity.

Daniel was proud of Irene. She was the life of the club. She was gay, irresponsible, beautiful. She went the pace more than ever. Men envied Daniel his wife. They did not know what she cost him.

The one drawback to his new plunge into life was the number of bills and the call for money it occasioned. Daniel found that the moneylenders declined to let him have another advance. He had not mentioned to Irene that there had been a robbery at the bank. If she found this out he was always able to defend his lack of confidence by the fact that the staff had been sworn to keep the matter from the public. Nor did he tell her that the loot was buried under the rose-bush. He was waiting a favourable opportunity to lift the bag. He intended to circulate the notes in a way whereby they would not be traced to him. He could do this over on the Continent. A week-end trip was enough for this.

He chose an evening for the job of lifting the bag--an evening when he would be alone. The maid was to be out. Irene, unable to be absent from the club, was going there alone, and he was to call for her later. He did not need to find excuses for not accompanying her. She asked for no reason so long as she was allowed to go the pace with the set.

Darkness had just fallen when Daniel pulled on his garden boots. He was on his way to the back door when the bell of the front rang. He opened it, and faced Detective Morat.

With Morat were two other men. Morat was smiling kindly, as usual, his hand smoothing his stout jaw.

"I want a word with you, Mr. Callow."

"Come inside. What do you want now?"

Morat closed the door behind him and faced Daniel.

"You are a good bluffer, Daniel Callow, but I see no reason to change my suspicions."

"You mean about the bank robbery?"

"That is what I mean."

"Well? Have you come to insult me again? The manager promised----"

"It's out of the manager's hands now, Callow. I have made a lot of inquiries, and I have gone over every yard of the case. I have come to the conclusion that the stolen money is here."

"Find it!" scoffed Daniel Callow.

They were bluffing each other. At least, that is what Daniel Callow thought; and his regard for this famous detective was very small. Had he not beaten him once?

"I have a warrant authorising me to search the house. You raise no objection?"

Daniel Callow's self-command was excellent.

"I'm going out to attend to my rose-trees," he said with a smile. "Call me when you've finished. I'm getting tired of this inquisition, and the daylight is fading fast."

He turned and went out to the garden, leaving Morat stroking his smooth jaw thoughtfully.

Ten minutes later, when Daniel was loosening the earth round his bushes, Morat appeared. He looked at the rose-trees and at Callow. The latter was laughing to himself. He stepped off the rose-bed and struck the mud from his boots.

"Found that money yet?" he asked sarcastically.

Morat stroked his smooth jaw softly.

"Daniel Callow, what would you give to keep your wife out of this?"

The question struck Daniel in the weakest link of his armour.

"You keep her name out of this!" he cried. "You've mentioned her before----"

Morat plunged his hand into his pocket and thrust a five-pound note into Daniel Callow's face.

"And I'll mention her again," he retorted. "What if your wife tendered this at the club you frequent? Don't you know that all the numbers of the missing notes are known? Do you want her charged with being in possession of stolen money?"

Daniel Callow's jaw dropped. He staggered back, his legs weakened under him, and his face went white as paper.

"Where did your wife get this note?" thundered Morat.

"It's impossible!" cried Daniel. "She didn't know where I hid the money!"

As soon as the words were out, torn from him unexpectedly, he realised what he had said. But it was too late. Detective Morat turned to the two men who came out of the doorway at his signal.

"He'll confess now," he said quietly. "Take him indoors."

And Daniel Callow did confess; but it was not until afterwards that he discovered that Morat had bluffed him to the end. The five-pound note had never been in Irene's hands. Morat had brought it with him to aid his test.

THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE SEVENTH CELL

The visitor had taken a great interest in the story of Daniel Callow, and when the Governor finished he spoke quietly.

"I would not advise you to put Daniel Callow among your Intellectuals."

"Thank you. I think you are right in your judgment. He shall stay among the Intelligents. I have given you proof that certain men give themselves away under certain circumstances. I will now give you a case where Nature intervened and sent Robert Lyons to the seventh cell."

* * * * *

But for a caprice of Nature (continued the Governor), Robert Lyons would now be facing the scaffold. As it is, he has been for some time in hospital, and it is extremely unlikely that he will ever go outside these walls, or, rather, the confines of the prison, so long as he lives. Such is the sentence for his evildoing that a judge and jury have passed on him.

Lyons was a gamekeeper and odd-job man, and one day, when he was out in the woods, he rested his rifle in the fork of a tree and took careful aim at a piece of granite formed in the shape of a chair that stood out of the scrub five hundred yards across the valley. There was murder in his heart, but it was not the wild, irresponsible desire to slay, which is often associated with the taking of human life, that swayed him. The murder he contemplated was deliberate, cold, implacable.

In studying Lyons we are studying a man who is in many ways different from most men. His design to kill was clever, original, worthy of an Intellectual. As a matter of fact, I have thought that if Lyons had been in another sphere of life he would have made his mark, for he possessed many of the traits of almost genius. After all, brains are no monopoly of wealth or high birth.

Lyons pressed the trigger of his rifle, eased the weapon from his shoulder as soon as he had fired, took a pair of binoculars from his pocket, and focused them.

Above the irregular top of the granite block that took the form of a natural chair--in the locality it was known as the "Wishing Chair," owing to some legend--he had fastened a target of wood shaped to represent a man's head. With the aid of his binoculars he observed that his .303 bullet had passed through this head. The observation convinced him that the way to final accomplishment of his intention was clear. His intention was to put a bullet from his gun through the head of his employer, Professor Roche; and he was going to do it without his hand or finger being nearer the trigger than the width of the valley.

You will perhaps agree (said the Governor, in parenthesis) that within recent years a change has taken place in the methods of criminals quite as much as in their motives. A generation ago murder was usually committed because of some grudge, some grievance, some desire for revenge, or hope of gain. The murdered persons were almost always aware of their enemy, or enemies, and of the cause of the antagonism. In these days the victim is less often aware of having an enemy. Within the last few years the victims have been the friends, the benefactors sometimes, of their slayers in more than fifty per cent. of the murders committed. Does this indicate that humanity is retrograding instead of progressing? No one can answer definitely. Some have said that war revives in man the savage impulse to slay. The question is more complicated than appears on the surface. Why did Robert Lyons wish to slay his employer?

It has become an axiom that to find the culprit of any breakage of the law it is necessary to find the motive. The old Frenchman was not infallible when he said, "Find the woman." The police first seek for a motive, and then trace the person involved. It is all a matter of team-work, all a business of routine. It is a process of elimination. So much for the police and their methods. Let us get back to Lyons and his intention. Motive played a part, as usual, fear another, greed another, and at base these were, singly, small enough, but when combined they were everything.

Professor Roche was one of the savants who are to be found in the backwaters of English life. London is the home of active men. The provinces are as often the home of thinking men. Professor Roche was one of the most retiring, yet one of the most learned, men in this country. He had travelled widely in pursuit of his science. He was an archæologist, naturalist, conchologist. It was he who presented to our best museums the collections that are most prized. He had been all over Europe and America at the invitation of private and public organisations, aiding them in appraising and displaying their treasures. And yet this man, who could have had many honours given him, desired none. He was content to live away from the hub of things, and his pleasure was in his work. His collections were envied by curators of museums, who often begged them on loan. These collections had been gathered from the four corners of the world. Time after time he had been approached, indeed tempted, to sell some of his collections, but he had always refused. It was because Robert Lyons had overheard such a conversation between the professor and the representative of a museum that he became aware of the chance of making something for himself without much effort.

Lyons acted as gamekeeper and handyman on the small estate. His duty was, among other things, to keep poachers away, and allow the wild life of the land to live to its natural fullness, so that the professor might study the habits of the creatures living above, on, deep in the earth. He accompanied Professor Roche on many tours, for he knew the ways of hares, squirrels, field animals, as well as he knew the ways of birds. He knew them from the woodsman's point of view, while the professor knew them from the scientific angle. Squirrels came to feed out of his hand, rabbits did not budge when he passed, rooks looked down on him from their nests unafraid. It was to be expected that such a sanctuary for wild life would attract poachers bent on killing where killing was profitable as well as easy.

One step leads to another. Lyons was the man who made the cases in which the professor's specimens were kept. It was he who, under the professor's directions, arranged the preserved butterflies of many countries, the humming-birds of the Amazon, the rare shells of the tropics, the eggs of a thousand wonderful species.

At first the value of the exhibits loomed only faintly behind their beauty. The conversation he had overheard turned his thoughts from the beauty to the value. He lacked the scientific enthusiasm which is above the consideration of money, and gradually he began to compare himself, a humble gamekeeper, with the wealth which he handled. He ended by coveting.

He took another step. The professor did not miss the humming-bird Lyons put into his pocket and sold in London on one of his occasional trips to town. He found it comparatively easy to sell when he had satisfied the dealer that Professor Roche had commissioned him to dispose of the rare curio. He named a price and stuck to it. The dealer saw this man knew values, and paid the price.

Other specimens went the same way, to other dealers. It was easy to say that the professor was getting rid of a few specimens quietly in order to obtain ready money, but this could not go on indefinitely. Lyons was perfectly aware of this, but he was already involved and could not turn back.

There was one shell in the professor's collection which had attracted the attention of Lyons more than anything else. It nestled in a bed of plush, and was about six inches long, pale ivory in colour, overlaid with wonderful mosaic markings, and had a slender, tapering spire. Its label gave its name as "Glory of Coram--very rare." Lyons took the trouble, when in London, to find out that there were not half a dozen such shells in the world's museums. It was valued at many hundreds of pounds. Might he not take this as a final toll? He took it.

Crime is like a steep incline. The criminal starts slowly, gathering speed and daring as he descends. This speed and daring are largely generated by the momentum of descent. At a given distance down the slope, stoppage is impossible without danger of a crash. Robert Lyons had reached this distance.

The dealer in London to whom he took the shell examined it for a long time. He asked questions. Had Lyons been more business-like he would have known that rare shells are not sold over counters without the buyer's protecting himself by negotiation and written statements. He listened to the dealer telling him that he must have a note from the professor authorising the sale.

"Give me a note and I'll get his signature," he said. The dealer gave him a typewritten note--such a one as is generally kept for reference when curios change hands. Robert Lyons left the shop, and returned to his home that evening realising that he had thrown a net about his own feet.

His position was now one of peril. He had stepped beyond the bounds of petty theft. He spent a considerable part of that night in his little cottage trying to forge the professor's signature. His hand was clumsy, and could not form the letters well. He knew his forgery would be detected at once. As he sat pondering the situation the great idea came to him. He would get the signature, and make it impossible for the professor ever to say that he had been forced to sign.

Curiously enough, he never thought of returning the Glory of Coram to its case. In this he was like the majority of criminals, whose brains do not harbour a thought of retreat. They must go on, driven by some force of their own making against which they cannot strive. If he retreated, there would be inquiries, and his other thefts would come to light. The dealer would probably write to Professor Roche, for the Glory of Coram was a treasure not often put into the market. All this meant prison, humiliation, the brand of the broad arrow. By the unusually cunning plan that had come to him Robert Lyons saw that the only other way was to blot out the life of Professor Roche.

This alternative may seem to rational people to be an enormity. Is it any more so than the decision of the murderer to kill the girl who expected to marry him, so that he might marry another? Or more heinous than the poisoning of an old woman to gain the few hundreds of pounds for which her life was insured? Lyons, like other criminals, did not balance his proposed crime by the material gain it would bring him. He balanced it by his own safety.