THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE FIRST CELL

There is at least one disadvantage under which I labour (said the Governor) in taking upon myself the mantle of the wise and delightful Sultana Scheherazade. While she knew that she would be allowed to live so long as she amused and engaged the attention of the Sultan of the Indies, I am restricted to barely ten hours; and though I believe that I also could entertain you for one thousand and one nights, I will do my best, in the single unit at my disposal, to prove to you the theories I hold so strongly. Without, therefore, entering into any of the side issues which would otherwise give rise to much profitable speculation, permit me to relate to you the story of the occupant of the first of the fourteen cells to which I have directed your attention.

David Fleming and his wife lived in a little cottage about twenty miles from London. They never went up to town except occasionally, and then only on business, and their business was not lawful. In the intervals between their "jobs" they posed as respectable citizens.

On the night of which I speak they were in the sitting-room of their small house, which was situated several miles from the nearest village. They had a visitor, a dealer in precious stones, who had come down in haste from London to treat with them for some jewels which he had heard were for sale. The jewels were part of a tiara which David Fleming's wife had risked much to obtain—her liberty and her reputation as a thief. Having no honour, in the matter of honesty she did not count honour. She, like her husband, was a social bandit.

She stood in the shadow of the badly lit room while her husband sat at the table with the prospective buyer of the stones. The tiara had been melted down, and the gold had been disposed of elsewhere. Only the gems remained. Loose gems can always be sold at any of the subterranean markets in London, but these were better than the average thus disposed of, and to get a purchaser who could pay the extra price had been somewhat difficult. But the visitor they wanted had come at last, one who was in a position to bargain.

"You want one thousand pounds for these?" asked the dealer, shrugging his shoulders. "I will give you eight hundred, their utmost value. Say the word and it is a deal."

Fleming raised his huge head and looked towards his wife who stood in the shadow beyond the table. She was motionless, a small woman with a keen, sharp face like the face of a weasel.

"Shall we take it?" asked Fleming.

His wife retreated a step so that the dim light of the lamp on her face became dimmer. She was like a ghost in the gloom. Presently she spoke, though her features could not be distinguished.

"Has he brought the money?"

"No; but he says he will write out a cheque."

The dealer lifted his head, but did not look round as he addressed the woman, nor did he look at the man whose eyes were fixed on his face.

"I have written out a cheque," he said.

"For a thousand?" came the query from the dim outline of the woman.

"For eight hundred."

There was a silence. The dealer was one of those business men who do not speak much. He picked up one or two of the stones and began to lay them out on the table under the shaded lamp. David Fleming watched him curiously, unemotionally. His wife watched also, holding her breath.

The dealer seemed to be absorbed in handling the stones. His fingers lifted one after another and held each before his eyes and against the light of the lamp for a moment before he placed them on the white table-cloth. On the window the rain was beating furiously. When the dealer had placed all the stones, large and small, rubies and topazes, cat's-eyes and peridots, diamonds and sapphires, in the position he desired, he cast a glance at Fleming and breathed deeply.

An exclamation from the back of the room brought Fleming's eyes from the table. He peered over the dealer's shoulder towards his wife.

"Did you speak? Shall I close the deal?"

Her weasel face emerged from the shadow and her finger pointed to the stones arranged on the table.

"Why did he put them in that fashion?"

The dealer answered, still looking at Fleming, to whom the question had been directed.

"These stones are, I think, from a tiara that disappeared from a dressing-room of a London ballroom a few months ago. This is the arrangement they formed in the tiara. One stone is missing."

"Well?"

The woman took a step nearer. Her husband glanced at the dealer, then at his wife.

"I am wondering," said the dealer, "where the little stone is. Perhaps it was lost when you broke up the tiara?"

"You are wrong. The stone fell out when I grabbed it and ran off. What of it? We take the risk. All you have to do is to buy what you see."

There was a challenge and a sneer in her tone, to which the dealer merely replied:

"What you say is true. It is your risk. Come, I must get back to town. My car is out there in all the rain. Is it a deal?"

"Why didn't you bring cash?"

"I came down after the banks closed. Besides, it is easier to carry a cheque—and safer."

"But I wanted the money."

"You can apply at the bank in London to-morrow morning. I have given you a card with my address, and I have shown you a bank-book with a balance that will easily meet the cheque."

"I must think it over."

It was noticeable that she said, "I," not "we." Her husband had not uttered a word during the latter part of the conversation. He sat with his eyes fixed on the stones arranged in the form of the tiara. The woman crossed the room and went out. The two men heard her go along the passage leading to the back door. They heard her open it and go outside.

She returned to the room in a few minutes and approached the table. Rain had damped her shoulders and glistened on her dress.

"It is a wild night," she said. "I went to get some coal from the cellar in the yard. We need fires in this weather."

Her husband lifted his eyes towards her and now spoke.

"What have you decided?"

The question revealed the relationship between them vividly. It was she who was the master—he the servant. Beside her, Fleming was a giant in stature. In brain he was a pigmy.

They were a couple who had been attracted—if one can use the word—to each other by the law of contrasts. In their relationship as a married pair everything about them seemed inconsistent. In the normal run of things they ought to have been mutually antagonistic. Even in appearance this was so.

Fleming was a mountain of a man. She was a mouse of a woman. Her very features suggested the sharpness of a rat. Her teeth stuck out in front, yet she was not bad-looking. She appeared to be a woman of fifty, yet she was her husband's age exactly—thirty. She looked ill and she was perfectly well. This physical deception had been of use to her more than once when she had been arrested for stealing jewellery. The hotels were her hunting ground, ballrooms her gold mines. Her game was the rich people who frequented social events. Sometimes she went as a servant, sometimes as a guest. She never returned empty-handed. When she was caught, as had happened once or twice, her captors pitied her seeming frailty. Judges had been misled by her physical fraudulence and had been lenient where they might have been severe. She was a living imposture.

Her audacity was out of all proportion to her appearance. It was she who planned the part her husband played in their lawlessness. It was she who had taken the tiara from a dressing-room in front of a watching maid, and had given it to Fleming, who was hiding by the side entrance. It was she who had flung pepper into the maid's eyes, and had then stalked confidently among the guests raising the alarm. She had gone out by the front door as the police came in. The maid had been blinded permanently. In the agony of her torture she could not give a detailed account of the incident.

To this monstrous paradox her husband had surrendered his personality, unconsciously but finally. He was himself a paradox, which explains the curiosity. In spite of his bulk David Fleming was merely a pickpocket. His courage never went beyond taking a wallet, or a watch, from a stranger's dress. He looked a burglar capable of murder. In reality he was afraid of a single policeman. He had not the courage to take risks. His whole life had been spent among the sneaks of the street corners. He had married this needle of a woman because she willed it, knowing that he would be of use to her. He did not know whether to admire her or fear her. She ruled him because her rodent mind gnawed constantly at his bovine one. It was in the nature of both of them to steal, but she had been the cleverer of the two—she had stolen his personality from him. It was the case of the mosquito moving the elephant.

All this, of course, did not enter into the docketed information which the police possessed of them. Scotland Yard, having their finger-prints and their photographs, swept aside subtleties. It classified them both as rogues.

"What have you decided?"

For the second time Fleming asked the question, blinking his big eyes towards her as she stood beyond the circle of light. She rubbed her thin hands together, making a smooth noise like the rubbing of sandpaper on a polished surface.

"I have not decided anything—yet."

The dealer turned in his chair and looked at her.

"The cheque is here," he said, tapping his breast. "I wrote it out, knowing that eight hundred was the limit I could go to. Have you had these stones here since you stole the tiara?"

The woman did not move a muscle of her face as she replied.

"We melted the piece down and sold the gold. We kept the stones because there are not many who can give the cash they are worth. How did you get to know they were for sale?"

"News travels, you know. I had the word from a mutual friend. I gave you his name when I wrote to you saying I was coming to-night. But I could not get off before the bank closed. It will be difficult for you to dispose of these stones if you don't sell them to me."

"Well?"

"Isn't that all the more reason why you should take my offer?"

"Perhaps."

"Look here. I can't waste my time. Take it or leave it. I must get back to London to-night, rain or shine. It is not as if there was a hotel here. You have fairly buried yourselves in this neck-of-the-woods."

"Will you stay the night if we provide a bed for you?"

"What would be the use? You don't need all night to make up your mind? No, I'll get back home."

He rose to his feet and began to button up his coat.

"Eight hundred is my offer. Take it or leave it. I will give you ten minutes to decide. I am going out to crank up my car, and when I come in you must say what it is to be. Eight hundred is better than nothing."

"Eight hundred is less than we ought to get."

"You can't tell me of another diamond merchant who is willing to give you eight hundred and ask no questions. Just think of the trouble you'd have to get rid of the loot."

With that the dealer strode to the door. As soon as he was gone from the room the woman approached her husband, who was still seated at the table.

"He must not go back to-night," she said in a low tone, banging her clenched fist on the table.

"Why? If you'd take his price——"

"You fool! Don't you see? He is no dealer. That man is a detective. He is one of the Flying Squad."

The words sent a shock like electricity through Fleming. He sat up suddenly, his large face white and scared.

"How do you know?" he stammered.

"It is easy. Had he been a dealer he would have paid in cash. A cheque would be evidence against him if anything came out later. And he used the word 'stole.' No dealer uses that word. He gave a name in his letter—the name of the man who he says told him we had the goods to sell. I don't believe it. I tell you that man is a detective from the Yard. I was watching him. I know now."

"Are you sure?"

"Sure? Of course I'm sure. I tell you he is one of the Flying Squad who came to investigate after the tiara was lifted. I have been watching his face. I can place him. That is why I kept to the background. He is setting a trap for us."

"If he is a detective, why doesn't he arrest us?"

"Don't you see? He heard about the stones somehow, but hadn't time to get a warrant made out for us. It was late when he left London. He came to make sure we were here—to make sure we had his letter——"

"But his cheque? His offer to buy?"

"A snare! A ruse! Had he brought the warrants and arrested us, did that give him the diamonds? He had to come to see them for himself—as a dealer. He needed evidence. Did you not see him working out his case as he arranged the stones on the table? Detectives don't carry big money—so he offered us a cheque."

"Well?"

"Ass! A dealer would have had the money, as I tell you. Think, fool! If we accepted a cheque from this so-called dealer we would have to go to London to cash it. It would be made out on a London office. And they would be waiting for us at the bank door, or at the counter when we presented the paper—so!"

She made a movement with her hands to imitate the clasping of handcuffs over her wrists. Fleming shivered.

"It will go hard with you, wife. There is the blind maid. It means penal servitude—almost life for you——"

"It will be as much for you as for me, unless we do something. We can get out of it yet. We must."

"How can it be prevented?" he demanded dully.

"By countering plot by plot. He has set a snare for us and we have walked into it. Let us set one for him. Do as I say. Here he comes."

The door of the room was thrown open and the dealer entered hurriedly. Rain was running from his coat. His shoulders glistened like black mirrors.

"Here is a fine thing!" he cried angrily. "My car is standing on her rims. Somebody has slashed my tyres. Who could have done it?"

"Who indeed?" echoed the woman. David Fleming jumped to his feet, glancing from his wife to the dealer.

"Your tyres?" he said. "Your tyres cut!"

"Oh, we have had some trouble with tramps in these parts lately," said his wife quickly. "They hate cars and motorists. They say that at night they are sometimes nearly run down by cars. One of them has played a bad trick on you, mister."

"It is a trick I'd make him pay for if I could find him," said the dealer in wrath. "I cannot go to London on three rims. I have only one spare tyre. The nearest garage——"

He looked helplessly from one to the other, while the rain dripped from his coat and formed pools on the floor. The woman looked at the sitting-room clock.

"It is miles off," she said. "It is closed long ago, anyway. Don't you see it is nearly midnight?"

"What can be done?"

"What I said before you went outside. We'll give you a bed until morning. Switch off your lights and put the car in our shed. If you stay it will serve a double purpose. I may make up my mind about the stones and let you have them at your price, and you may take us both up to London in the morning so that we can cash the cheque."

"That means that you are willing to accept eight hundred?"

The dealer took the slip of paper from his pocket-book and signed it, receiving in return the stones in a small canvas bag. He put the bag into his inside pocket.

"It is kind of you to put me up," he said, "but all the same there must be a way to get back. The village is not more than three or four miles off."

"It is merely a place of one short street."

"But I may be able to telephone——"

"The telephone is in the post office. It closed early in the evening."

"Is there no train?"

"None before dawn. And that is a slow milk train."

"Well, London is twenty miles away. It is a nuisance. But surely there is a garage where I may hire a car?"

"There is a garage, but they have no cars to let for hiring. They just do repairs and sell petrol."

A slash of rain hit the window. The dealer could think of no more suggestions.

"I may as well stay in that case," he said. "I'll go up by train in the morning and tell the garage people to call for it after I've gone. I can come down in a few days for it."

"That is the best plan," said the woman. "And in the meantime you two men had better push the car into the shed and I'll prepare your room."

As she went upstairs she struck her hands together repeatedly, muttering to herself.

"He does not want to drive us up to town. He wants to go alone with his evidence. I know! I know! We'll see who can set snares best!"

She was still up in the bedroom when the men returned to the sitting-room. The dealer walked through the room straight to the kitchen and bent down in front of the dwindling fire, spreading his hands out. Fleming followed him. The dealer glanced round the kitchen. He lifted the lid of the coal-scuttle in order to put some fuel on the dying fire, but there was no coal in the scuttle. When Fleming offered to get some the dealer shook his head.

"I'll go up to bed soon. I came in here because there isn't a fire in the sitting-room. It doesn't matter. These tyres will cost me a bit to repair."

At that moment the woman entered.

"Would you like a bite of supper?" she asked.

"No, thanks. I'm going to bed."

"Then let me show you the way to your room."

The dealer nodded to Fleming and followed her. She lit a candle and took him to his room. The room was small and mean. The bed was ready, the blind drawn. He thanked her once more and flung himself into a chair, yawning. She bade him good-night and went downstairs.

When she descended to the kitchen her husband was standing gazing at the embers in the grate. He looked up as she entered.

"Well?"

"The snare is set," she answered, primping at her straight hair. "We have only an hour or so to wait."

"What do you intend to do?"

There was a tremble in his tone and a startled look spread over his face. Her features were more than ever like those of a rat just then.

"You shall see. It is him or us. He knows all. And he is the only one who knows."

"What then?"

"There is an old mine shaft less than a mile off. What could be a better hiding-place for his car?"

"A mine shaft?" repeated Fleming, and his face became livid.

"It is better than the river," she said calmly. "It would never be found in the mine shaft."

She went to the cupboard and drew out a long carving knife, running her finger along the edge. Her husband trembled at her coolness. She saw his agitation and smiled, her front teeth showing.

"All you have to do," she said, "is to obey. I have his cheque. If we get someone to cash it we shall have ready money. We need not go to the bank. Let someone else go. We shall find a 'fence' who will cash it. For the present, consider that the stones are in his inside pocket—his coat pocket. We shall have them also. There is no lock on his bedroom door. If you are afraid, you may go to bed."

"What are you going to do?" asked Fleming in a shaking voice.

She replied quite coolly.

"Close the jaws of the trap. While he lives he has evidence. It is his existence or ours."

There was a cold ferocity about her that even Fleming had never previously seen, and the new knowledge of her character stupefied him with horror. Into his dull brain there crept a vague knowledge of a terrible truth. This was the climax of evildoing. First a small theft, then a larger one, then a still greater, then a crime that chilled his bones and branded them both for ever. The progress of crime, of violation of the law, had worked to its consummation.

"Woman!" he cried suddenly, in desperate revolt. "Woman, I have married you!"

She answered his outburst swiftly and with venom.

"Fool! I have kept you!"

It was the truth. Left to himself he would never have become more than a minor criminal, snatching small prizes, swaying between the gutter and the prison cell. Her greed had done two things; it had enriched them, but it had involved them. The law of compensation, of responsibility clinging to the heels of daring, worked in crime as in respectability. She had always viewed the prize and had disregarded the corollary. He coveted the one but always shrank from the other.

In a little while she spoke again.

"It was I who slashed his tyres. That was the beginning of the counter-snare. It kept him here. There is nothing much for you to do. When I have made it possible, you shall take him in his car——"

"When you have made it possible?" he repeated.

"When I have made it possible. Listen. This is what you have to do. Carry him down and lay him in his car. It must be done before dawn. You know how to drive a car. Bring it out of the shed and lay him in it. Then drive it to the mine shaft. On the rims of the wheels. It doesn't matter. Stop the car just as you come near the mine shaft, and get out. Then start it again and let it plunge into the shaft. Him with it."

"But the car tracks?"

"There is more rain coming. The tracks will be washed out. And nobody can prove anything."

"What about us after this?"

"We will leave this house. When we get the money from a receiver for this cheque we will be all right. We have had passports ready for some time. There will be no difficulty at all. We can sell the stones over in Paris."

Fleming let his head fall into his hands, and remained in that position.

The woman put a handful of sticks on the fire, and crossed her hands in her lap, her eye on the clock.

It was nearly one hour after midnight. The rain had ceased, but the moon was struggling behind great clouds which chased each other across the sky. A strange quiet fell on the house.

Another hour passed. Fleming remained with his hands clasping his forehead, his eyes on the floor. His wife kicked off her shoes and rose softly to her feet.

She moved noiselessly towards the door and passed out. Fleming did not stir.

He strained his ears, nevertheless. Would there be a struggle? His wife was agile, swift, inexorable. The sleeper was defenceless.

A floorboard above the kitchen creaked. Fleming took his hands from his forehead and listened, his head cocked in a strained position. The ceiling of the kitchen was old and thin; it was the floor of the bedroom to which his wife had gone.

Did he hear a cry? Breathlessly he waited. A blow? A groan? No. Not a sound. All was silent. He wanted to shout and dared not. His nerves were all unstrung.

It seemed like an eternity, but in reality it was not more than fifteen minutes before the kitchen door was pushed open. His wife appeared. She was like a ghost. Her face was pale and grim, but her lower lip was held down by her projecting teeth. In her hand was a small canvas bag. It was the bag in which the precious stones were kept. She sat down and emptied the contents into her lap. They sparkled and gleamed in the darkness.

"It is done," she said. "We hold the trump card. The snare worked."

She put the stones back into the bag and hid it in her bosom. Her husband waited for her to speak. She pulled on her shoes slowly.

"He did not stir. His coat was lying over him—to keep him warm, no doubt. It was easy to get the stones. He had not even taken them out of his coat pocket."

"Did he—did he—move?"

"No. Lay like a log. One blow was enough! One blow! The knife is sharp. I sank it deep into him. The point must be through his heart."

"He did not turn?"

"He had the bedclothes over his head. The room was dark, but I knew my way. I did not touch him. I stood beside the bed and struck. I left the knife there. One blow! It was easy. The knife slid down deep."

Fleming gazed, speechless with horror at her recital. Her words were ghastly in their simplicity.

"It is your turn next," she said.

"For what?"

"In a little while we shall be going—away. The car must be got out. You will bring him down. You know what to do. We needn't go to bed now. Let us eat."

She went about the business without a shiver. They ate a hurried meal and drank some liquor. His wife allowed Fleming a free supply of liquor, knowing him for what he was. When they finished their meal she made a gesture, and he got to his feet.

It was raining again, but Fleming did not notice this as he walked from the front door to the shed. He pushed the car out and guided it to the front entrance. He coaxed the engine, and saw that there was a supply of petrol in the tank. All that was needed was to crank it up. He returned to the house and found his wife putting on her coat.

He turned his head away from her and walked towards the narrow stairs. His hand was on the siderail when a noise struck into the heavy silence of the night. The sound petrified them both. They gazed at each other. A motor-car was roaring its way up the lane.

It stopped at their door. They were without power to act.

Into the house strode three men. The foremost stepped into the lamp light, and the Flemings saw his face and cried aloud in terror. The woman's eyes seemed to start from her head.

"His ghost!" she screamed.

"Not his ghost," replied the man. "I heard you and your husband planning my death when I went out to start my car and when I went to my room. I slipped out of the window, leaving the pillows made up to appear as if I were asleep. I have been to the village. I telephoned to Scotland Yard. These men are also detectives. They came down in a fast car. You are being arrested, both of you, for the theft of the tiara, the blinding of the maid, and the attempted murder of myself. Had you really brought coal for the fire when you went out, madam, you might have killed me in bed, for I did not suspect you would try murder. But I saw that you had been out and that you had not brought coal as you professed, so I knew you had slashed my tyres. Let me warn you both that whatever you say will be taken down in writing."

David Fleming did not answer. His wife thrust out her rodent-like face as she saw the handcuffs being produced.

"Why did I forget to bring the coal?" she muttered, a rat to the end.