Chapter VII: Part 7

"From now on," he cried, wagging a finger at her, "you ain't going out of my sight. You get your things on and come home. We'll see what your dad has to say when I tell him. You women all need to be broken in. I'll break you in. Come on, get on your hat."

She sat white and trembling, but there was a gleam in her eyes that he had never seen before.

"Get on your hat," he thundered.

She obeyed him, biting her lip. A change had come over her. She no longer tried to answer him. She put on her hat and coat while he packed the suit she had pressed. They went downstairs, he carrying his bag and his suit in a parcel. He was still muttering to himself.

At the street corner she was about to walk towards the main thoroughfare, but he growled at her:

"Not that way. You're going down to the river."

"But----"

"Shut up and don't answer. I know your game. You'll do as I say, or I'll make you. Think I don't know what I'm doing? I don't want any talk. It's me that's seeing you home, not Jim."

"If you let me explain----"

"I don't want explanations. Not yet, I don't. That's enough. Not another word."

He saw what she was after, did Bill. Once out on the main street, where the traffic was, he would not be able to handle her. He knew that he must keep the mastery.

"If you cross me again I'll give you worse than I gave you up in your room," he growled grimly. "I ain't finished with you yet, Rene. You've got to know that I'm boss. See?"

She gave a queer little laugh at that; a laugh that stung Bill more than any accusations or defiance. It spoke to him of contempt, it was a sneer, a ridicule that cut him to the quick. He dropped his parcel and struck her, sending her staggering against the wall.

"That'll learn you," he said, glowering at her. "I'll break you in, I will. Come on, or I'll give you more."

She stood leaning against the wall, panting and holding her cheek. In her eyes there was a swift gleam that died as he looked at her. She was at his mercy, and she knew it as well as he.

"Come on," he ordered.

She obeyed without a word of protest.

He kept beside her as they turned down a side street, glancing at her now and then from under his brows, knowing by her silence that he had conquered.

Down through dark, narrow passages he marched towards the river bank. There were few lamps now and the mist from the river thickened the gloom. Bill welcomed the mist and the darkness. It hid them from prying eyes and thus made his escape with the stolen loot easier. Rain came--heavy rain.

Once the shadowy form of a policeman appeared across the street, and Bill feared that Rene would seek his protection; but she marched on without taking notice of the policeman if she saw him.

Soon they were in the black regions of the river. The cold damp from the water came to them in a murky breath. All was silent and black, and wet. The rain was steaming now.

Bill's eyes tried to pierce the thick atmosphere. He was looking for the boat and the light that would be fixed at her stern. He moved across the flagged front of the esplanade, peering intently. And just then he felt a pair of hands on his back. He was pushed forward. He could not help himself. He uttered a loud shout--and then stepped into space.

His bag and parcel flew from his hands as he fell, crashing against the stones and following him downward. He dropped straight into the three feet deep ooze that held him as he floundered. He felt himself sinking as he struggled. The more he struggled the more he sank. The sticky mud hindered his movements; and as he at last found bottom there came to his ears the voice of Rene Toler tauntingly:

"If you'd let me explain, Bill Hemsey, you'd have known that Jim Harlek came with a message from dad to say he couldn't come in the boat because the tide ain't full yet. I've had enough of you and your lies! You and your business meetings with Rachel Kohl! You forgot to take her love-letter out of your pocket when you gave me your suit to press, so you can go back to your Rachel Kohl, and don't ever come near me or I'll give you in charge."

And then, as she moved away, a little compassion perhaps stirred her. She called again.

"But I'll send a cop down to get you out of your mess in the mud. And if you want to know, I was out with somebody. It was Tommy Conn."

That was the last Bill Hemsey heard of Rene that night; but she kept her word. Five minutes later a policeman strolled down to see if it was really true a man had fallen over the "esplanade" into the mud.

He flashed his lantern on Bill Hemsey, still fighting his way ashore; and the blaze of the lantern showed a burst bag and numerous notes lying about the quagmire.

Of course this led to inquiry; and inquiry led to a charge; and a charge led to the Old Bailey.

* * * * *

The Governor paused.

His visitor smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

"And the Old Bailey led to the tenth cell?" he said.

The Governor nodded, stroking his chin.

"Bill Hemsey didn't have much of a chance with the jury," he said dreamily. "Not so much as even the police expected he would have. Eckhardt, apparently, promised that he would pay for a defence. But he didn't. Neither he nor Tommy Conn took much interest in Bill Hemsey."

"How was that?"

"In order to understand the full circumstances," replied the Governor, "you ought to know the story of the next cell's occupant."

THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE ELEVENTH CELL

"At any rate," said the visitor to the Governor, "there can be no doubt as to the category in which you will place Bill Hemsey. He does not appear to have much hope of getting higher than the Illiterates."

"I agree with you. Hemsey belongs to the grade you have mentioned. His place is fixed for the remainder of his term. His case--so far as his trial is concerned--reminds me of the biblical injunction not to put our trust in princes. Eckhardt was certainly one of the chiefs of the profession he had chosen. He was known among the criminal fraternity as the Prince of Receivers, though how he came to the title I have never been able to find out exactly. It may have been because he was rich, and appeared to be above the law."

The Governor cleared his throat and folded his arms on his chest as he bent a thoughtful gaze on the carpet.

* * * * *

Among the acquaintances of Tommy Conn (he began) was one who was, to some degree, a man who was his rival in crime. This man's name was Billiter. The two were rivals, although they worked by different methods. Conn was a burglar who lifted goods without opening safes; Billiter was an expert at safe-opening. These different methods originated in the early training of the men. Conn had never learned a trade. Billiter had been an engineer and mechanic before he became a burglar. Each believed his method the safest.

Let us take the case of Conn first, and see where it led him, and how he came to forget, not only Bill Hemsey, but even Rene Toler, within a week of Hemsey's arrest.

Tommy Conn was a burglar who possessed resource and was capable of quick decision. He often said that the last lap on a job was the only one that counted. Eckhardt, the receiver, had the knowledge of a connoisseur. Combine these qualities, and you have the most dangerous union at war with the law.

Conn entered a large house one night--a house in Park Lane--on what was perhaps the biggest job in his career. He stood in the large gallery listening for a sound that might betray his presence to the owners of the valuables he had come to steal. All was quiet save for the distant and indistinct movement that told him he had timed his visit well.

All was dark in the gallery, but a yellow line showed at the bottom of the door. Conn stepped over on tiptoe and turned the key in the lock. Thus he put a barricade between himself and anyone who might try to enter.

He was not afraid. He was careful. In the cases lined under the massive pictures on the walls were the valuables he had come to steal. He set to work at once. The family who possessed the goods were at dinner.

Only once or twice did he use his flashlight, and then he used it to make sure that he was taking what he had been instructed to take. From under his coat he produced a small cotton sack half filled with down. Into this sack he deposited the loot, one article at a time, gently and with care.

It was easy to insert his jemmy under the lids of the cases and give a slight upward wrench to the locks. While he did so he covered the locks with a soft scarf, to deaden the sound of splintering wood. This was child's play to Conn. Not a single lock gave more than a faint groan when he gave the twist needed.

There were valuables of all kinds--jewels, gold, pearls, ivory and onyx, diamonds and rubies. Most of them were set in exquisite form, paired and graduated in small antiques. There were tiny statuettes, treasures from the four corners of the world, all of which had been gathered by past generations and had been handed down as heirlooms; treasures that were too precious for public museums to buy.

Tommy Conn did not need his flashlight to direct his hand towards the best of these valuables. The sparkle of the gems guided him. He went through every case, taking the best; then he stepped towards the door again, unlocked it, and tiptoed to the window.

He was on the first floor of the house, not a great distance from the garden. He went out as he had entered, took care to close the window after him as he hung on to the gutter-pipe that was within easy reach, and slid down to the ground. He landed on the gravel path and stepped on the lawn. Across this he sped, and leaped for the top of the wall that separated the grounds from a side-street. He had to wait a few moments before the road was clear; a policeman was strolling down towards the main thoroughfare. When the policeman was gone, Tommy Conn clambered over without making a noise. He walked round the corner into the main road and approached a small two-seater car that was drawn up by the gutter.

The lights of this car streamed down the road. The general traffic was streaming past it. The policeman who had come down the side-street was standing not far off. Tommy Conn walked up to the car from the rear, lifted the luggage grid and deposited his bag of loot in the space underneath, tipped the loafer who had been watching it for him, and took his seat.

It was not a new car, but it was a swift one, powerful and capable of tremendous energy. As he was about to start he saw the policeman's eye on the car, taking in its proportions. Tommy signalled to the policeman.

"I was told there was a garage up that street," he said, "but I can't find one. Can you tell me where I may get a supply of petrol? I must get to Oxford to-night."

"There's a garage at the top of that street, sir," answered the policeman, "but it's a long way up. A nearer one is straight ahead, ten minutes' walk from here."

"Thanks, I'll go that way. Good night."

"Good night, sir."

Tommy operated the self-starter, and the car slid forward. He felt the policeman's eyes on his number-plate at the back of the car. That did not worry him. The number-plate had been changed before he started on his job, and the number he showed would take a great deal of tracing. He forged his way among the moving vehicles and put on a little speed. The garage to which he had been directed flared at him as he passed it. He swept up the first turning beyond it, dodged into Oxford Street, came down through Piccadilly Circus, and headed south. He was bound for Southampton.

Why did Tommy speak to the policeman? He did it because he had learned by bitter experience that to take the bull by the horns is safer, if bolder, than to let the bull take you. The burglary he had just committed had been done as many of his burglaries had been done--on commission. He regarded himself as an efficient burglar, just as a man might regard himself as an efficient plumber, or tailor, or stockbroker. He worked for clients. In Conn's case, the client for whom he worked most was Eckhardt. He was working for Eckhardt now, driving Eckhardt's car, going to the rendezvous on which they had agreed. When he reached the place he would receive his fee, hand over the car to another of Eckhardt's servants, have the number-plate changed, and depart. All clues had been covered, all suspicion could be met, all inquiries answered.

It was one of the biggest hauls he had ever made. The idea had been Eckhardt's, the planning of the theft had been Eckhardt's, the loot would be Eckhardt's--Tommy Conn's percentage was his fee. In this Conn was cunning. He did the work and let Eckhardt dispose of the proceeds. Eckhardt was able to do this because he was a dealer in valuable antiques, with a reputation in America and Europe. It is true that his reputation was shady, but he was always careful in his deals, and he knew that in antiques there are always collectors whose love of possession overtops every other consideration. Watch a salesroom during an auction of famous treasures and the truth of this will become very apparent.

At first Tommy Conn had protested to Eckhardt that the risk of breaking into Lord Calcott's private gallery was too great. It was known in burglarious circles that a policeman was constantly near the house, day and night. The mansion had become a kind of point duty, because Lord Calcott had great influence in political quarters and it was expected that at his death he would leave many of his valuables to the nation.

To all Conn's objections Eckhardt had a reply. The greatest risk was in getting away with the loot. Late at night, when the occupants of the house were asleep, burglar alarms would be working. The obvious thing to do was to get the goods when the alarms were not fixed up for the night. The best time to attack the house was when the family were elsewhere. Dinner! That was the time.

How to get away swiftly? Eckhardt had a car. He offered to lend it to Conn. The latter had been in the car often enough, and he knew how to handle it. A burglar in a car was sufficiently uncommon to escape remark. A burglar who had a car such as Eckhardt's might laugh at any pursuing taxicab. To disguise the car the number only need be changed, for it was of a popular make, seen daily in the West End.

For the job Conn was to receive three thousand pounds in notes. These were to be handed over to him at Southampton, on board a small petrol yacht-fishing-boat which Eckhardt had hired for the purpose of escape. This vessel was of the type often let out to amateur yachtsmen at south coast resorts. In reality, they are converted fishing-craft, but they have the appearance of stodgy private yachts of heavy beam, and look worth twice their actual value. Eckhardt was taking one of these vessels over the Channel to a French port; from there he could get a ship to America.

The United States was Eckhardt's ultimate destination, because he could get a big price for his loot in that country. He intended to get a big price. He had tapped his market already. He had secured an offer for most of the stolen pieces. Receivers of stolen property have their own markets.

The master stroke of all Eckhardt's arrangements was that by which he was able to give Tommy Conn minute instructions and descriptions of the articles he was to extract. Eckhardt had paid a visit to Lord Calcott, pretending to act on behalf of a "client" who was prepared to offer a large sum for a certain medallion. Lord Calcott had politely declined to sell, valuing his collection as he valued the names of his ancestors who had brought it under one roof; but, seeing that Eckhardt knew his business, he permitted him to view the collection for a few moments. Eckhardt peered into every case, complimented the peer on his possessions, and left. He had seen enough. A month later he called on Tommy Conn, and the crime was discussed.

As he drove the small, powerful car through South London on his way to Southampton, Tommy Conn was under no misapprehension as to the value of the jewels hidden under the luggage grid behind him. He was able to appraise and judge such things. He estimated that he was carrying loot worth at least a hundred thousand pounds.

A lesser man might have been tempted to make the error of keeping the whole for himself, considering that he was being paid but a small fraction of the value of his burglary. Conn knew better than be tempted. For a lone burglar to sell the jewels would be suicidal. Burglars cannot approach principals in such deals. On the other hand, to have taken the gems from their settings, to have dug them out of the gold, and to have melted down the glittering statuettes and ornaments, would have been to reduce the value to vanishing-point. The truth was that only one receiver in London was able to take the risk, or had the facilities to make it worth while assuming the responsibility, of disposing of them. That receiver was Eckhardt, the dealer in antiques, who knew every avenue by which treasures could be sold, as he knew the worth of every piece he saw. After all, thought Tommy Conn, the main risk was on the shoulders of Eckhardt. When Eckhardt had paid him his three thousand, the deal was closed so far as he was concerned. He was safe, too, for Eckhardt dared not give him away. Their partnership covered too many transactions for one of them to point the finger of accusation at the other.

Conn kept the car at an easy pace, taking a circuitous route--the one which had been mapped out by him when he had detailed his plans to Eckhardt. He went through Bromley, swerved into Croydon, speeded through Sutton, and passed Epsom at twenty miles an hour. It was just nine o'clock when he swung up Dorking main street and headed for the ridge known as the Hog's Back. As far as possible he had avoided the towns, and had not put on headlights when he was in the country. He reckoned that, by putting on speed, he would be in Southampton shortly after midnight.

He was over the Hog's Back and well on his way when he saw, glimmering faintly in the distance, the lights of an inn. He knew the inn. It was one used by those discriminating motorists who prefer quiet and good cooking rather than bustle and feeble imitation of West End restaurants. He was beginning to feel hungry, and wondered if he might stop at the inn for a meal. The matter was decided for him as he was sliding down a slope with his foot on the brake. From immediately behind him a loud report filled his ears, and almost deafened him for an instant.

Tommy Conn's nerves were strong, but for an infinitesimal period of time fear shook him. Presently he smiled. It was not a gun he had heard. He was not being held up. The report had been one of his tyres bursting. He jammed the brakes on, and came to a standstill.

When he dismounted, and looked at the rear tyre which had exploded, he bit his lip. This was no ordinary puncture. The tyre had been cut by a piece of broken bottle and was embedded in the cover. He pulled it out and looked at it curiously.

Taking a lamp, he walked back, flashing his light on the ground. Forty yards from his car he saw a broad band of jagged pieces of glass. Someone had deliberately laid down broken bottle-glass in the path of motorists.

Luckily, the inn was not far off. He decided to go there and see if he could get someone to fix on his spare wheel while he had some supper. He mounted his seat, and rode to the inn on three tyres and a rim, taking the car into a wide yard behind the square building.

There was no mechanic on the staff capable of fitting his spare wheel, so he had to tackle the job himself. To save time, he ordered a meal to be ready for him in the dining-room. He was jacking up his car when the landlord came out, carrying a lantern.

"This will help you, sir," he said, putting the lantern down so that the light fell on the number-plate, which he scanned. "I dassay you'll be surprised if I said a friend expects to get you here."

Tommy Conn gripped the jack tightly, but kept his head down and his back to the landlord.

"Expects me? Someone expects me?"

"That's so, sir. I suppose he'll be back for you by the time you've finished supper."

There was geniality in the man's tone, but Conn was in no mood to appreciate geniality. He turned with a snarl.

"I suppose it was you that laid a trap of broken beer-bottles on the hill?" he cried. "I'd have passed your beastly inn but for my tyre going phut!"

"Beer-bottles, sir? Why, that would be the gentleman who came to look for you. He was anxious to find you, he was. I'll send a lad up to clear the glass off the road at once. That's dangerous, sir, that is."

He bustled into the house, and Conn heard him giving directions. Tommy Conn was no coward, but the landlord's words set his heart leaping. Who had laid the line of broken beer-bottles on the road? It had been done with a definite intention. Through his mind there flashed the thought of the policeman who had stood near his car just after the burglary. The policeman had seen the number beside the rear lamp. There was time for them to find out about the burglary and wire outlying stations. Was it possible----?

His thoughts were disturbed by the return of the landlord. The man was frowning.

"Who was this gentleman who was looking for me?" demanded Tommy Conn. "What was he like?"

"Why, I couldn't tell you that, sir, seeing as he kept inside his car while he spoke to me. He druv up and asked if you had called here."

"How do you know it was me he wanted?"

"Why, sir, he told me the number of your car!"

"What was his name?"

"He didn't give one, sir. Just said it was urgent for him to see you; and then he asked for half a dozen bottles of beer. He said he'd make sure of gettin' you, if you hadn't come this length by that time."

"What time was that?"

"Barely half an hour ago. He said you would be on the road somewhere. He asked me to keep you if he patrolled the road towards Winchester."

"Asked you to keep me, did he?"

"That he did."

"And you intend to do it?"

"Well, sir, he said he'd come back to see if you'd arrived. I fancy he laid them broken beer-bottles up there to puncture your tyres. He laughed funny when he bought the beer-bottles, sayin' as how they would make sure you called here. His joke, maybe; but if other motorists find it out I'll get into trouble, sure as fate. You can't blame me for the burst tyre, sir, can you?"

"Oh, no. Is my supper ready?"

The landlord bustled off to inquire. Tommy Conn crouched beside the wheel, thinking hard. There was only one explanation. The policeman in London had noted the number of his car. The burglary had been discovered. The telephone wires had been working. It was the police, beyond a doubt, who were after him. Who but a policeman would use the word "patrolled"? It was a local detective who had been sent out to intercept him. The landlord had been asked to "keep" him. That was a localism for "detain." And the broken beer-bottles on the road--that was a mean trick to stop him, a dodge to block his path.

"They haven't got me yet," muttered Conn between his teeth.

He worked feverishly, unscrewing the nuts and bolts. He had the spare wheel almost fitted when the landlord came back again.

"Your supper's ready, sir. Just come upstairs for a wash first. Bathroom is first to the right on the landing."

"All right."

"Can I give you a hand?"

"No. Leave me alone. I can manage."

The landlord went indoors--hesitatingly, as it seemed to Tommy Conn. The latter had made up his mind. He would give them the slip yet. His car was a fast one. He knew the main roads. The route had been well planned.

When the wheel was fixed he pushed the car out to the front of the inn, mounted the seat, and started. He did not look back, though he heard the landlord calling something after him. The answer Tommy Conn gave to the shout was to give the car more speed. He whirled out to the main road and let her go. Speed limits had no terrors for him now.

He had not covered a mile when he was aware that another car was rushing towards him. There were no headlights on his approaching car, but the lamps gleamed brightly--too brightly. Conn glanced at his speedometer. He was going at thirty miles per hour. He opened up, and saw the indicator move to thirty-five, then forty, then fifty. More than that he dared not venture on the dark road, which was not wide.

As the two cars came near each other Tommy Conn saw a head pushed out of the window behind the driver. He smiled to himself. It was a hired car of the taxicab type--just the kind of car the police used. He had a glimpse of a white face and waving arms thrust out from the window. A voice roared something at him. He did not heed. In a flash and a roar he was past and away.

He sat grimly at the wheel for several miles. He whirled past cottages by the roadside. He saw a policeman's lamp in the middle of the road ahead. This was one of the famous spots where the police had a trap. He took no notice of the warning winking of the policeman's flashlamp. He hurled his car at the darkness. The policeman leaped aside just in time.

Through more than one village he swept, reducing his speed only at corners. When he was on the stretch he let the car go at her utmost--faster than an express train. Once he was compelled to stop altogether. He had reached a level crossing, and the gates were against him. He sat in the panting car grinding his teeth. Minute after minute passed. He rose and looked back. A car was coming on his heels. He recognised the lamps as those of the car he had already passed. The driver had turned and was chasing him.

The desperate resolve to charge the gates of the level crossing was in Conn's mind when he heard the rumble of a train. It came sweeping round the bend and roared between the gates. Conn glanced behind once more. The pursuing car was within a hundred yards of him. He pressed his hand on his hooter, to stir the signalman in the box above him. The signalman looked out, saw him, waved his hand, and nodded. A moment later the level-crossing gates began to move. Conn's car was moving as soon as the gates.

He had bumped over the railroad track and was gathering speed when he heard a voice shouting to him. The cry came indistinctly above the running of his engine:

"Stop! Conn! Stop!"

Tommy did not even turn his head. Was it likely that he would allow himself to be arrested when there was still a chance of escape?

The two-seater bounded forward into the night. Only once did Tommy Conn glance behind. He saw the car still pursuing him, but he was gaining ground slowly. He had underestimated the going power of the taxicab behind. It hung on to his trail doggedly, its hooter constantly sounding a call to him to stop.

Tommy Conn realised that he must do more than run away from his pursuer. The lights of Winchester were in the distance, but he dared not fly through the town. For all he knew there might be other cars there ready to block his path, or to take up the chase. He resolved to skirt the city, keeping to the open roads. His task now became one not only of straight running flight. He had to employ cunning as well as fleetness.

First he put on as much speed as the car was capable of. This had to be done carefully, for the night was dark. He was constantly switching his lights on and off. He turned up side-roads which were strange to him. He took chances that no ordinary driver would have taken. He had to take them. There was no alternative save the arrest that was on his heels.

In one of these side-roads he was almost shaken out of his seat. The car bumped over large rocks, over mounds of earth. A flash of his headlights told him that he had run into a new road; about him were heaps of stones, barrels containing tar, and mounds of gravel. He glanced over his shoulder--cautiously this time. The car was still pursuing, but it was some distance away. Now was the time for a final act. Tommy Conn drew his car into the hedge, switched out the lights, and dismounted.

He went round and put out the tail-light. He stopped his engine. The darkness around him was intense. His car was almost hidden by a high line of bushes. He gritted his teeth and ran towards a pile of stones and rubble.

There was murder in Tommy Conn's brain at that moment. It was his only chance of getting a fresh start. He had but one thought, and that was to escape arrest. If only he could gain Eckhardt's yacht at Southampton he would be free. Eckhardt and he were going over to France together. The idea had been that Conn would return to London as soon as he received his fee; now he saw that he must do something which would keep him away from London. He did not mind that. With three thousand pounds he could get along in a foreign country.

Besides, it was either his freedom or--this arrest, this pursuing fate that was driving him to desperation. The police had always been his foes. He did not hesitate.

He rolled a barrel of tar into the centre of the roadway. He lifted large blocks of stones, intended to line the edge of the footpath, and dragged them over also. He threw boulders beside them. Already he had piled a heap beside the barrel when he heard the hum of the car. It was turning into the new roadway.

Tommy Conn ran back to the cover of his hedge. He crouched there while the pursuing car came up the road at thirty miles an hour. He heard the driver loosen up to a greater speed. Then he heard the shock.

It was like the explosion of a bomb. What damage was done Conn could not guess. He did not care. He heard the crash, listened to the splintering of glass and wood, the sudden scream of bursting metal, heard the report of the engine, and saw a tongue of flame shoot up into the air. Simultaneously with the explosion, flames burst out around the doomed vehicle.

Tommy Conn was in the seat of his own car by this time. He was gone by the time the tumult died down. Looking back, he saw a figure outlined against the furnace; then he turned his head, grinning to himself. He had checked his pursuers decisively. He did not look back any more.

Less than an hour later he drove steadily, and well within the speed limit, into Southampton. Dawn was coming. He had changed the number-plate of his car again, and now it bore the proper registration. He garaged the car in town, giving the name of Eckhardt for the receipt, took his sack of loot from its hiding-place, and walked towards the docks.

Had the car belonged to him, Tommy Conn would have plunged it into the sea, or sunk it in a river, so that all traces of it would have been lost. In garaging it he was not risking himself. His brain was one divided into two compartments. In one he thought of what he was receiving; in the other of what he was giving. He had agreed to accept his fee for the burglary. The risk of the chase was not included in the bargain, therefore the risk lay with Eckhardt. It was up to Eckhardt to instruct the man he had engaged for the return journey how to get the car back to London. Since Conn was delivering the goods as promised, he had carried out his part of the agreement. Eckhardt never gave anything for nothing. Why should he?

He found the boat lying near the steps of one of the docks, as he had expected, and he went on board. A seaman was swabbing the deck. He saluted Conn.

"You're the gentleman from London we're waiting for, I suppose," he said. "I'm ready to move as soon as Mr. Eckhardt gets the clearance papers."

"He can get them as quick as he likes for me," replied Conn with a smile. "I'm dog-tired. Show me where I can sleep."

He was given a small, poky cabin, along one side of which was a berth. He shut the door, put his sack on a table, and turned in at once.

He woke with the sunlight streaming through the porthole. He was conscious that he was not alone. A man was standing by his bunk.

"Sorry to wake you, but I came to inquire about the garaging of Mr. Eckhardt's car."

"All right, I know. What time is it? Nearly midday. I'll give you the receipt for the car. You're the one to take it back to London for Eckhardt, aren't you?"

The man took the receipt, and was looking at it as Conn climbed to the floor, stifling a yawn.

"I'll give you a tip, mate," Conn said suddenly. "Be careful on the return. I had a rough trip down, but I beat 'em."

"Beat who?"

"The cops. Oh, I'm not going back to London for a bit, I tell you. They laid broken beer-bottles on the road to stop me. One tyre was punctured, but I put on the spare wheel and got away. Then they chased me, so I built a pile of rock in the middle of the road, and their car charged it and blew up. We'd better get away. Isn't this boat moving yet?"

"What's all the stuff in the sack?" asked the other.

"That's the loot for Eckhardt----"

Tommy Conn stopped and peered into the face of the stranger. Something in the man's eyes glimmered.

"What's it got to do with you?" he challenged.

"A lot. I am a police officer."

Conn gasped, and fell back a pace.

"Where's Eckhardt?" he cried. "Has he squealed?"

"No, Eckhardt didn't squeal. But what you've just told me links things up."

"Links what up?"

"A few things that puzzled me. Last night I called here to request Eckhardt to come to the police station. We knew he had hired this boat. Instead of calling, he went ashore and hired a car to go inland. And then, when we found his own car garaged this morning----"

"He's bolted! Saved his own skin!"

"Well, he tried to save yours, evidently. The driver of the car Eckhardt hired tells me it was Eckhardt who strewed the broken bottles on the road."

"What's this?" demanded Conn hoarsely.

"The driver of the car has made a statement. He says Eckhardt was chasing his own car, trying to stop it from coming down. He must have been frightened by the request to call at the police station. He kept following his own car until they ran into the obstruction. Luckily the driver wasn't hurt, but Eckhardt was inside the vehicle and hadn't a chance. He was killed. As you've stated that you drove that car, you'll be charged with the affair. Your name is Cohen, isn't it?"

"My name is Conn," gasped that individual. "I didn't guess--tell me, what were you charging Eckhardt with?"

"We weren't charging him with anything," replied the officer. "We merely wanted him to sign the clearance papers to let this boat sail. Hold out your wrists. I advise you not to say anything until I have gone through this sack and examined the contents."

* * * * *

"And that," said the Governor, "was the reason Tommy Conn and Eckhardt were unable to help in the defence of Bill Hemsey, as it was also the reason for the sudden and desirable termination of the rivalry between Conn and his friend Billiter, the clever criminal who boasted that he always erected a perfect defence. Each, as I have said, was of the opinion that his own particular method was the best. Alas, is there ever a best in crime?"

"Billiter seems to have proved it," said the visitor with a smile.

"And yet," replied the Governor, "there is an answer to your theory even there. The answer will be found in the twelfth cell in the row. I have Joseph Billiter under lock and key at this moment, and I shall tell you at once how he arrived at that position."

THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE TWELFTH CELL

I have already decided (continued the Governor), and I think you will agree with me, that Conn's place is among the Intelligents. But I am going to put Joseph Billiter into the class above that. He is certainly one of the Intellectuals. I have more than one reason for coming to this decision.

Joseph Billiter was a student at one time at a public school. He was intended by his parents for one of the professions, but his whole inclinations were in the direction of engineering and mechanics. He went to one of the big universities, took honours in his examinations, and then came to London to seek a career. He became a teacher in a school demonstrating the sciences. At one of his lectures he stated that it was possible to defy any apparatus that civilisation had ever erected, or could erect, to protect itself against criminals.

That lecture was widely quoted and commented upon. The result was that one of the biggest firms of safe-makers in the country offered to stake a certain sum of money that it was impossible to enter one of their safes within a given space of time. Frankly, I believe the offer was made in order to calm the unrest that had been caused in financial circles by Billiter's declaration. It was felt that his remarks might tempt the criminal fraternity to increase their activities, and, in any case, it was stated over more than one conference-table that Billiter had been most indiscreet in telling openly what had been feared privately. Really the blame, perhaps, ought to have been put on the newspapers who gave prominence to his challenge; but these things are so complicated, and their threads run under and about so many interests, that it is difficult to trace blame, or to define what a man may or may not declare.

Briefly, then, it was admitted in inner circles that if what Joseph Billiter had said was true, it would be a bad thing for the safe-making industry; and, on the other hand, the safe-makers would not sit down to such a challenge, which meant loss of business and lack of faith in their wares. You observe how commerce is delicately balanced, and how even a lecture may cause a flutter in finance! At this stage the newspaper which had given most prominence to the lecture conceived the idea of staging a test. It was a great idea that came to the news editor of the journal in question. He was not a rich man.

The safe-makers were approached. Joseph Billiter was approached. The test was arranged, but there was one condition imposed by all the clients of the safe-makers. These clients included firms on the Stock Exchange, jewellers in the West End, even banks in the city. They combined in protesting against the test unless it was made in secret. After many discussions this was agreed to. And all the readers of the newspaper ever heard of the affair, in spite of their optimism and their hope of seeing photographs of the scientist at work as a burglar, was a small paragraph which stated that the test had taken place and that its results were "satisfactory."

The truth was that its results were satisfactory to only one of the parties. That one was Joseph Billiter. He had cut through the strongest safe made as if it were cheese.

How had he done this? you may ask. Simply enough. It is a scientific fact that any safe made by heat can be destroyed by a greater heat. And after he had bored his way into that safe he gave the small company another lecture, in which he made one admission. It was to the effect that the only place that was burglar-proof was a specially built bank vault, and then it beat the average burglar because it had several doors and an outside gate, and to get through these required time. In reality, it was time that beat the criminal, not the actual vault itself.

Now, the safe-breaker is certainly the most efficient of all criminals. One cannot be a safe-breaker unless one possesses patience, ingenuity, knowledge. Billiter demonstrated several methods. He used a powerful electric drill, operating it by tapping the cable in the building and showing how a modern burglar could thus add insult to injury if he knew his business. Then he used an oxy-acetylene burner. These burners give an intensity of heat of 3,000 degrees Centigrade--sufficient to cut through the hardest steel as if it were butter. The drawback to this method is the transportation of the oxygen and acetylene cylinders needed.

There was, again, the dynamite and nitro-glycerine method which he showed, and he gave the spectators much information that was new even to the police, representatives of whom were also present. He showed how, by boiling several sticks of dynamite for a certain time, the "grease," as it is called in the profession, is prepared. This "grease" is actually the stuff used so that there will not be too much noise. It can be carried to the scene of operation in a bottle, and, after a hole is drilled in the safe, it is filled with this "grease," covered with soap, and a fuse is inserted.

Joseph Billiter's demonstrations were very conclusive, and proved what the police have known for many years, namely, that the safe-breaker is the very top-notch man of crime. But success went to his head. He was still young, and he was very conceited, while he was very able. We do not know exactly what incident proved the downfall of Billiter. I fancy it was a woman, or women. It may have been wine, but that was not his failing originally. I seem to remember that he got tied up with a fast set up West, a set that frequented night-clubs and cabaret dancers' haunts. At any rate, he was discharged from his post. He did not get another.

For a time he disappeared from this country. It was said that he went to America; but one thing is certain; when he was next heard of he had turned crook. It is more than likely that he adopted this profession when he was abroad, for he felt very bitter at his discharge, and constantly declared that if Society would not give him the opportunity to live he would have his revenge--a sort of Bolshevik theory of injustice and injury turned to rebellion.

There were several safes burgled in and around London that caused the police to suspect a master craftsman such as he could be. He was shadowed, watched, suspected, but he was never caught red-handed. He always had an alibi, always a perfect defence. But everything pointed to suspicion of him. He married a girl who lived with crooks long before he became a criminal--that is, lived among them and knew their ways and their works. She was one of his assets.

Carney, the detective whose duty it was to investigate these burglaries, was convinced that they were the work of Billiter and no other. This belief almost became an obsession. He tried time after time to catch Billiter. He had him questioned; he questioned the people who supported his alibis; he kept on his trail; but he was always defeated. Billiter never seemed to make a mistake.

One evening Billiter went out on what he anticipated would be one of his best raids. It was a jeweller's shop within a hundred yards of Charing Cross. To see how he worked, let us observe him coming up from the cellar where the safe of his firm was kept.

The job had been done, and Joseph Billiter crept up the stone steps. The goods he had stolen were in his pockets and in the special belt strapped round his waist. He had placed over a hundred gold watches in this belt, in little compartments, every one worth a considerable sum, for he never took cheap goods. In his pockets were pearls, pendants, rings, brooches, necklaces. Taking him as he stood he was, at that moment, worth a few thousands of pounds sterling.

He closed the trap-door gently, and, stooping low, crossed the shop floor and made his way upstairs to the next storey. All was dark here. The single light which cast a dim glow through the shop on the ground floor had been his one danger, for from the street it was just possible that an inquiring policeman might peer through the slit in the iron shutter at exactly the moment Joseph was to be seen. Yet, even then, he would not have identified Billiter; but he would have raised an alarm. This passage from the cellar trap-door to the stairs leading aloft was the one risk Billiter faced.

As will be understood, the opening of the safe was not, to such an expert craftsman as himself, a real risk. He had made no noise, and he wore rubber gloves, which were thin and did not hamper his fingers as ordinary gloves might. There was also another advantage of rubber gloves. Some of the owners of safes had lately taken to leaving live electric wires in positions so that a burglar might be tempted to grasp them, and get shocks that would throw him into a state of panic. It would not, of course, kill him; but to a man like Billiter all these things were child's play. He knew how to evade such traps as well as the best.

Having negotiated the space between the cellar and the staircase, Billiter had still much farther to go. He never rushed. Standing in the darkness that enveloped the upper showroom and the offices of the firm, he listened intently. From the Strand came the distinct hum of taxicabs and the occasional scream of their hooters. The buses were thundering past. In a short time the streets would be crammed with the crowds coming from the theatres, and, by joining these crowds, Billiter had planned to make his escape without observation. For the present he was not merely listening to the traffic. He was anxious to hear if the policeman on the beat had seen him as he crossed the ground floor downstairs.

He thought he had heard a footstep under the back window. He tiptoed over to the window-sill and peered down obliquely. Yes, there was someone underneath. Had the policeman been watching? He prepared for flight.

Billiter was not afraid that he had been recognised, for he still wore the mask he had donned when he entered the premises. Nor was he afraid of being caught. His entrance had been by a way that was anything but direct. An ordinary burglar would have come into the shop by the back door, or by the side window. A very daring one might have bored his way through the wall from the premises next door, which were under repair at the time. But Joseph Billiter was not an ordinary burglar, even if he was a daring one. He had come to the store by a circuitous route, and he was making his exit the same way--a route that proved his superiority over usual methods.

It was because he had entered in this round-about fashion that he did not fear capture. A policeman, seeing an intruder, would go to the back door; he would call a colleague or two, and they would block likely exits before they entered to search. But by that time Billiter would be gone, without leaving a single clue for them to follow.

He moved back from the window and noiselessly opened a door that led to the top floor. He closed the door after him, locking it with one of his skeleton keys. He went up the narrow staircase without a sound. He was now in the workshop of the store, a small apartment in which were several benches, polishing wheels, and racks littered with the repair jobs of the firm. This room was really an attic, with one dormer window leading to the tiles. Billiter had left the dormer window open when he entered. He now made his exit by it, and pulled it down slowly as he lay with his feet braced against the coping-stone.

He crawled for some distance along the coping on his hands and knees until he reached a flat roof, in the middle of which a square glass studio was built. He was now two doors away from the jewellery shop. Once more his long skeleton key went to work in the lock of the door. He slipped into the studio, once more locking the door behind him.

He knew quite well where he was; he had studied every yard of the way he had travelled. He was just about to leave the studio by going downstairs when he stopped and drew back. Someone was coming up.

He retreated behind a large piece of furniture and pulled a small revolver from his pocket. He had never used his gun on any of his burglarious expeditions, but he always carried it, nevertheless. He did not want to kill; but a gun was always handy to intimidate, to menace, to scare. He told himself that all he needed to do was to put the fear of death into whomsoever was coming up to the room, manœuvre towards the door, and dash out, locking it from the outside. It was a simple enough plan; such a one had served him previously. As he crouched behind the furniture the opposite door of the studio opened, there was a faint "click," and the room was flooded with light.

"Put out that light!"

Billiter's order whipped across the apartment like the crack of a whip. By the door stood a man in his shirt-sleeves, his hands wet, as if he had been washing them. Billiter slid from behind the piece of furniture.

He knew the room quite well. He saw around the shelves were several bottles and jars; pictures were hung on the walls, large and small photographs. From the centre of the ceiling a large, powerful arc lamp was suspended, but this was not the light that was illuminating the studio. The arc lamp was controlled by a hanging pear-switch, the other by a switch on the wall next the door.