THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE FIFTH CELL

"Women are certainly the deuce," commented the visitor as the Governor dramatically ended his story of the fourth prisoner. "So far you have proved that my contention is right. A man ought not to have anything to do with them."

"And yet," replied the Governor, "men can make errors even when they think they are most safe. My experience has shown me that very vividly. And, since you may be pained at the part women have played in the tales I have already related to you, I commend to your attention my next story, which deals with the occupant of the fifth cell."

"I shall be happy to hear it," said the visitor.

I intend to introduce to your notice (said the Governor) a remarkable young man in the person of Frederick Clausen. We will find him seated in a cheap coffee-house in one of the northern districts of London. His elbows were on the marble-topped table at the moment I have in mind, and he was looking up into the face of the not too immaculate proprietor of the cheap restaurant.

"Yes," he said loudly, "the money was taken from the bank to-day and is safe in a black japanned box in the boss's escritoire. I myself put it in his study. There are two thousand pounds in notes alone, and——"

"Not so loud, Mr. Clausen," hastily interrupted the restaurant-keeper in a whisper, as he glanced over his shoulder. "Not so loud."

But Frederick Clausen took no heed of the warning. He laughed and threw back his head, then took a sip of coffee as his eyes travelled round the small, dingy room.

"It would be an easy haul for any robbers," he continued, "but there's nothing to fear on that score. We start paying out to-morrow at nine o'clock. I thought I'd let you know, so that you could tell anybody who hasn't been notified. Two thousand pounds, mark you! Fancy all that money lying in a little japanned box in the study!"

His eyes looked over the rim of his cup. Two men sitting at a table within two yards of him were busy looking at the moving traffic in the street. They were typical of the residents in the district—at least, a certain proportion of the residents—drifters, nondescripts. The peaks of their caps were drawn over their brows, their clothes hung loosely on them; yet their hands were soft and white. At other tables sat other people of similar type. There were derelicts there, and workers too, some furtive-eyed, some weary, some crooked-mouthed.

Frederick Clausen put down his cup and rose to his feet.

"I'll be going back home," he said. "To-morrow means a hard day's work—paying out all that money."

As he moved towards the door the restaurant-keeper came with him and laid a hand on his arm as they stood on the front step.

"You're getting on well, Fred," he said in a low tone, "and I'm glad to see one of the boys of the district making good. It isn't often you look in here; but you oughtn't to speak so loud about that money. You're forgetting what you ought to remember—that there's always someone sitting about. You know what I mean!"

"Oh, was I speaking too openly? I'm sorry."

"I'm saying nothing, Fred, except this. If I was you I'd shift that box of money from the study when you get back. I can't stop people coming into my shop for a cup of coffee so long as they behave themselves; but I'm giving you a hint. See? So-long."

He turned and went back to his frowsy counter. Frederick Clausen shrugged his shoulders and walked smartly along the grim street, his lips set in an equally grim smile.

"The old fool!" he muttered. "As if I didn't speak loud on purpose! Does he think I didn't know those two crooks were drinking in every word? Well, I'll bet it comes off all right."

He felt like laughing out loud, so pleased was he with himself. It was late in the evening, but he had spent the time to advantage. Was he not, in the eyes of his employer, above suspicion?

Turning into a quiet street, he mounted the steps of a tall, narrow house and let himself in with his latchkey. He shot the bolts of the front door with considerable force, spoke a cheery word to a maid who was finishing her dreary duties in the kitchen, saw that she had a candle to light her way to her bedroom, then put out the hall light and went to his own apartment. He undressed and jumped into bed at once.

But if Frederick Clausen went to bed he did not go to sleep. He did not want to sleep. In a few minutes he heard the scullery-maid mount to her room. A deep silence pervaded the house. Clausen lay still for nearly two hours, smoking an occasional cigarette to pass the time. It was long past midnight before he decided to move. He got up, put on a dressing-gown, took a small phial from his coat pocket and, with a handkerchief in his hand, opened the bedroom door. All was still.

He crept along the corridor to a door at the end of the passage and tried the handle. It turned easily. He shook some drops of the contents of the phial into his handkerchief and slipped into the room.

In a short time he came out again and went to another bedroom. This time he listened at the door some time before he entered. Then he slipped in, and came out again noiselessly.

He crept up a short flight of stairs and soaked his handkerchief from the phial before entering a third bedroom half way to the next floor. When he returned to the semi-darkness of the corridor he stood still, his face expressing satisfaction, his nerves jumping just the slightest.

He stood in the corridor and breathed deeply, but smiling to himself. In his hand he held the small phial and the handkerchief. In his head he held the scheme he had evolved and was now executing step by step.

What he had just done was the second stage of his plan, and both had been remarkably easy—easier than he had anticipated. He had entered the bedroom of his employer and had laid the handkerchief, soaked with chloroform, on his face. He had done the same with his employer's wife, with their son—a young man about his own age—and with the housekeeper. The servant who slept at the top of the house was far enough removed from the scene of operations to be dispensed with as a danger.

Clausen had gone to this trouble because he wanted to eliminate risk in carrying out his intention of robbing his employer, an intention he had harboured for some time. Robbery as an idea was old, of course; but robbery by his method was sufficiently original, he calculated, to place its author beyond suspicion. He had used chloroform merely to intensify the sleep of those who might disturb his work.

There still remained the third and final stage of his plan. He put the phial, in which were only a few remaining drops of the drug, into the pocket of his dressing-gown beside his handkerchief, and went downstairs towards the study on the ground floor back. The curtains of the room were open, and the fading moon gave him all the illumination he needed. He knelt beside the escritoire, opened it with a key, and extracted a black japanned box. He opened the box and gazed on the money.

It did not take him long to extract the major portion of the notes, which were done up in handy bundles. Some silver was in paper bags. He took most of it also; but he did not touch several cheques and postal orders which lay in a drawer beside the notes. Cheques and postal orders are traceable. Treasury notes, unless the owner knows the numbers, are not; and Clausen was well aware that his employer did not know the number of a single note.

He was gathering up the money when something soft brushed against his hand. He started, but next instant smiled at his alarm.

"Hullo, puss," he whispered, as he stroked the large black cat that was rubbing its head against his leg. "A black cat for luck!"

He tickled the cat's ears, then pushed the family pet away and completed his theft. He closed the japanned box and put it back in the escritoire, then wiped the metal with his handkerchief. He removed his finger-prints from the escritoire in the same way, and went back to his room. The cat came with him, purring and pleased as it rubbed itself against his ankles.

It wanted to follow him into his bedroom, but he pushed it out into the corridor and closed the door. His next act was to conceal the money.

This part of his scheme was also well prepared. From the fireplace he removed a brick, which he had loosened by degrees during his leisure hours, and in a cavity behind the loose brick he placed the notes and silver. As he replaced the brick a small fall of soot dropped on his hands. He shook most of it off into the fireplace, but, as some grime remained, he went to the bathroom and washed the smuts off. He was not taking any chances. Everything had been flawless in his plan so far, and he intended to be sure that the high efficiency continued to the end. Frederick Clausen was very thorough.

When he had cleaned his hands he returned to his bedroom, closed the door, threw his dressing-gown on a chair beside his bed, and turned in. He had finished the work he had set himself. The phial of chloroform and the handkerchief he had used could not be got rid of until the morning. For the present they were safe in his gown pocket.

Clausen was quite at ease regarding his theft. He was not an habitual criminal by any means. He was private secretary to Mr. James Holson, and he therefore knew all about Mr. Holson's affairs. The latter was what was known as a welfare worker, who gave his spare time to help those who desired to help themselves.

James Holson was well known in the charitable world, or, rather, the world of charities. He was founder and treasurer of one of the largest welfare societies in England—a society of the club type, which accepted contributions from its members and disbursed the funds on certain days of the year to the investors. Mr. Holson made no profit for himself out of his club-society. He was content to preach the duty and virtue of thrift. He handed out the savings from his office on the ground floor of his house in Euston district with the same smiling cheerfulness as he accepted the contributions.

Frederick Clausen was one of his "finds"—a young man of the lower working-class community who had aspirations, and ambition. He too was a member of the society, and he had become Holson's secretary because he was a young man who had shown a desire to "get on." Through his hands passed most of the details of the organisation. He lived in his employer's house, capable and trusted.

It was Clausen's desire to succeed in life, and this very ambition led to his present crime, strange though that may seem. His salary was small—too small, he believed, for his abilities. He had often asked for an increase, but had as often been told that an increase was not possible for the time being. To Clausen this was a grievance. He did not care that charitable societies such as his were incapable of paying large salaries to their staffs. He did not argue that the organisation was limited in funds by its very objects. But he did care that money in a lump sum was a very valuable possession, and he argued that to possess money enough to fill his dreams was worth a small risk. In him his ancestry warred with his lately acquired respectability. He felt his opportunities limited. He was not perhaps morally strong enough to step outside the limitations and go farther afield. His quarrel was that his limitations were limitations. Thus his alleged grievance gradually became a vague sense of injustice. There are many similar cases. Temptation fed on mistaken ideas grows strong. Thus the sapling became an oak.

So long as there is temptation there will be crime. So long as there is crime there will be law. So long as there is law there will be law-breakers. Rectitude and guiltiness are not separated by a straight line, as is commonly supposed. They are segments of a circle. Frederick Clausen had passed the first two segments, and now, having taken the money from the japanned box, had completed the last arc of the circuit.

He had approached his act as do practically all who, for the first time, set out to beat the law. That is to say, he approached it with acumen and knowledge born of considerable study. The average burglar who has adopted theft as a trade goes straight to his objective, and retreats swiftly from it after accomplishment. The amateur criminal is much more elaborate. He believes that he has the wit to do what others have failed to do.

Clausen was not content to steal and wipe out all traces of his trail. That, to his acute mind, was but to leave the structure of his plan half finished. He had gone much farther than that. He had seen to it that a burglary would be provided to send the authorities on a false scent.

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.