THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE FOURTH CELL

Before his visitor had time to raise any plea of weakness in the story he had just been told, the Governor lifted his hand, coughed, and continued apologetically:

"You are about to say that the capture of Vining was inevitable from the start? That was true so long as he remained on land. But had he been a stronger man mentally he might have succeeded in calming his nerves. Alas, there is always the one 'if' that makes what seems the perfect, clueless crime a failure in the end! Now, it so happens that in the cell next to that occupied by Vining there is a man who has been found guilty of a similar crime, but he committed it in what is perhaps the nearest approach to perfection—if one can use the word in this connection—I have ever heard of."

"Just a moment," said the visitor, as he sipped from a glass of soda-water. "May I ask why you have other condemned men in cells next to crooks and thieves?"

"It is a delicate explanation I am forced to give," responded the Governor. "You see, when an execution takes place, all the prisoners are kept in their cells until it is over. Even this precaution, this consideration for their feelings, however, does not prevent them knowing that the ceremony has taken place. When the executioner pulls his lever the sides of the trap fall with a resounding bang against the sides of the pit. Every man in the prison hears that bang. Now, to-morrow morning I intend to place these fourteen prisoners in their respective and proper grades and cells——"

"And I am here to see that they will not be offended by hearing the bang," interrupted the visitor firmly, as his fingers toyed with his revolver.

"Just so," agreed the Governor. "That is why you have favoured me with your company, which I find very exhilarating, in spite of its menace to my self. But to proceed with my explanation to your question. Whether I am alive or dead the fourteen prisoners will, before their midday meal, be transferred to the cells which will be theirs so long as they remain. Their present abode is merely, let us say, expedient."

"You excite my curiosity by the mention of the man who almost succeeded in making a clueless trail," commented the visitor. "I presume you will place him among the Intellectuals?"

"I am not prepared to say so. His crime was one of murder. That is a class by itself. But let us proceed to compare his methods with that of cruder persons."

With that the Governor leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands as he took up the story of the occupant of the fourth cell.

When a fox sets out to kill [said the Governor] he uses craft. Harvey Wilkins was a fox.

He had pondered long on his crime; so long that it had ceased to be hideous to him. It was merely a means to an end. He had made up his mind to kill Gilbert Hoey and he had got him into the best position for the purpose. He had balanced his chances so cleverly that he knew that, even if the result of his action was discovered, ordinary investigation could not lay the blame at his door. Third degree methods are not resorted to in England.

A few yards beneath where he and Hoey stood was the white-hot, moving surface of molten metal in one of the factory's cauldrons. They were standing on a narrow platform that ran a few yards above the edge of the huge fire-clay crucible from which the liquid metal would be poured by machinery. The furnaces were roaring. Wilkins had planned it well. They were alone. The workers of the factory had just gone for the night, the staff of night workers were coming in at the gates.

They had halted above the glowing pit, watching the tiny bubbles that shot up to the surface as the gases escaped and the scum arose. Harvey Wilkins glanced at Gilbert Hoey. He noted Hoey's eager features, his intent air. He hated Hoey with all the force of his jealous nature.

They were both engineers, both employed by the firm, both ambitious. They had worked side by side, both in charge of their own gangs of workers. But Hoey was beating Wilkins in the prizes of their calling. It was Hoey who had discovered a recipe for purifying steel, a swifter method for puddling pig-iron. It was Wilkins who kept to the old ways.

The two men were a contrast in almost everything. Hoey was brilliant and erratic; careless in many things, such as keeping his own set of books. He left details to others. Wilkins was deliberate and watchful of details; a plodder who lacked vision.

As he saw Hoey gazing down at the bubbling metal, Wilkins noted that he was resting his arms on the steel rail that guarded the platform. This rail was a sliding one, fitted in a similar manner to the deck rails of a ship. It could be slipped from its socket by the removal of a long steel pin, so that part of the machinery above the casting could be cleaned and oiled when the furnaces were not in blast. Wilkins glanced at the steel pin. His fingers fumbled with it. His eyes travelled to Hoey, who was leaning on the rail intent on the examination of the metal below. The heat came up to both men in waves. Wilkins closed his hand over the pin. Just one tiny pull and he would be free to carry out the schemes he had long contemplated but had been unable to achieve because of his rival Hoey. He pulled at the pin. It came away in his hand.

Down fell the rail, borne adrift by the weight of Hoey's elbows. Down went Hoey, his arms flung wide, his hands grabbing at space and failing to find a hold. His body plunged into the boiling metal. A flame shot up, a blue flame with a white fringe. And that was all.

There had been no cry, no shout of alarm. The whole thing had been so quick that even Wilkins was amazed. It had been so simple that it seemed impossible to believe.

The steel rail dangled idly from the stanchion. The metal bubbled and stirred in the cauldron. There was no more Gilbert Hoey. Not a vestige of him could ever be traced henceforth. He had been obliterated more efficiently than a man blown to atoms. He had been engulfed in a liquid that had made of him nothing more than a shooting flame.

Harvey Wilkins picked up the hanging rail and put it back into its socket. He pushed the steel pin home. He looked about the works. No one was there, the place was deserted. The last of the nightshift men were beginning to come through the timekeeper's wicket on the other side of the yard. Wilkins walked back to his office.

He sat down and drew his handkerchief over his perspiring forehead. He was pulling himself together. As he sat in his chair he heard the hooter sounding, telling him that another casting was about to be made, that another furnace had finished its job. In a few more minutes the molten metal would run like seething silver into the moulds and cool off in time in the shape of rails, ships' propeller-shafts, and other necessaries for the world beyond.

Harvey Wilkins felt perfectly safe, if a little nervous. His love of detail had stood him in good stead for this, the greatest risk he had ever taken, the foulest act he had ever committed. There was no one to say that his hand had withdrawn the steel pin that dropped the guarding bar. There was no one to say that Gilbert Hoey had been examining the job. The entrance to the office was on the other side of the building from the men's entrance. Hoey did not come down at night usually. It had been at the suggestion of Wilkins that he had come down this evening. No one had seen Hoey fall to his death. The murder had been complete, clueless, without a trail leading to its author.

"He couldn't have felt it," Wilkins murmured. "The temperature is the highest a furnace can reach. He couldn't have felt a thing."

He kept repeating the last sentence to himself for some time; perhaps as a sort of a salve to his screaming conscience. But now and then he shuddered as he thought of the scene.

The thudding and crashing of the steam hammers, the dull roar of the moving machinery, came to him suddenly, though the noise had been going on since the sounding of the hooter. He stirred himself, took a glass of spirits from a bottle in a cupboard, and began to set about the minor part of his crime. He intended to prove that the man who had thus been blotted out of life had gone from the factory in quite another way and of his own accord. One thing was certain, he told himself, getting great comfort from the reflection: Hoey would never be able to disprove what Wilkins was going to say about him!

Wilkins rose from his chair and went into the small office which Hoey had used. They had separate rooms, but the girl who typed their letters and acted as their joint secretary was always gone for the night before her two superiors. Wilkins sat down at the typewriter and typed a short note on a sheet of paper. He left the paper in the machine.

Next he took down a cash-book and a ledger and did some figuring on the last pages on which entries had been made. He left the books open. He opened Hoey's desk with his keys and searched among the contents. He found what he sought without much trouble. It was a small enamelled cash-box. Using a key on Hoey's key-ring, he opened the box. It contained a bundle of treasury notes and a handful of silver. Wilkins emptied the contents into his own pockets. He put the cash-box back in the drawer, left Hoey's keys dangling in a lock of the desk, switched out the light, and returned to his own room.

From his own desk he took a shipping company's brochure and put it in the pocket of Hoey's overcoat, which hung from a peg in the passage outside. The brochure was an illustrated one giving the fares and passenger services to and from South American ports. When he had finished these arrangements, Harvey Wilkins put on his own hat and coat and hurried from the office.

He went straight to the house of his employer, the head of the firm. He was admitted on his application to see his employer urgently. In a few minutes he was faced with the man he had come to see.

"Mr. Mynes," he began, acting the part well, "I have come up at once because I have reason to think that you ought to know what has been going on. I am afraid that the news I bring is rather terrible."

"What is it, Wilkins?" asked Mr. Mynes, settling himself in his chair. "Nothing gone wrong at the works, is it?"

"I'm afraid, sir, it has something to do with the works. Do you realise that you have been swindled by Gilbert Hoey, and that he has absconded with the money he drew to pay his men's wages?"

"God bless my soul!" exclaimed the factory owner, jumping to his feet. "It is impossible!"

"I could hardly believe it myself, sir, when I saw what was going on. But it is true. I came to you to-night because the crisis has been reached."

He stopped as the door of the study opened, and on the threshold stood a girl dressed in white. She had dark chestnut hair which, exquisitely shingled, made a fitting frame for her attractive features.

"I'm sorry," she began, seeing Wilkins, "I thought you were alone, father."

Wilkins knew that this was not strictly true. She had come to the study because she thought Gilbert Hoey had arrived. She and Hoey had been on very friendly terms for some time; more friendly than Wilkins liked, for he had hoped to marry his employer's daughter.

"Come in, Ada," cried her father. "Come in and hear what Mr. Wilkins has come to tell me. What do you think? Hoey, the man I trusted implicitly—the man who was carrying out one of the biggest jobs for me—the man——Words fail me when I think how I trusted him."

"What has he done?" asked the girl.

"Listen to Mr. Wilkins. Go on, Wilkins, and let me have this in detail. I want proof, not suspicions. You say Hoey has run off with the wages money of his men."

"That is what I say, sir. You may remember that a few months ago I took over the books of Hoey at your suggestion, so that they might be brought up to date?"

"I told you to do so. Hoey said he couldn't do book-keeping. He hated book work unless it was connected with engineering specifications."

"That is what you told me, sir. I took over his books. I found finally that it was impossible to make them balance. He had used sums of money for which he could not account. You allowed him to pay the workers on his contracts himself. A week ago I spoke to him about it. He promised to make reparation."

"Why didn't you come to me at once?"

"Because I wanted to give him a chance. I thought he might have been negligent."

"Go on."

"To-day I knew that he had drawn a large sum for wages. The big contract for steel rails and forgings was in his hands to a great extent. He has been managing the laying of the new railroad. I asked him to come down to the office to-day and talk things over. He came into his office late in the afternoon, but did not come near me. I waited, doing overtime on my own books. His typist stopped work and went home. I called out to him, saying I was ready to go over the books with him. He replied that he would come to me later. Some time passed. I heard him go out. I went into his office. A sheet of paper was in the typewriter. It contained a short message to you, sir. I have left it just as I found it."

"Well, what was the message?"

"It was to the effect that, as he saw no hope of getting a partnership with you, he was taking matters into his own hands, and was going away with the wages. He says that it is useless for you to seek him, as he will never be found."

"And the money?"

"I looked into the cash-box. It was empty. He must have been gone an hour before I went into his office."

"The fool!"

Mynes sat back in his chair and gritted his teeth. Suddenly he rose to his feet.

"He was a fool," he said bitterly. "I trusted him, and I intended to make him a partner. I had not told him so, because I wanted it to be a surprise after he had put the present contract through. Hoey a thief! Hoey a common swindler! Wilkins, you and he were my right-hand men! Well, I'll make an example of him!"

He strode towards the door, then turned and beckoned to Wilkins.

"Come down to the factory at once. I want to go into this matter. I can hardly believe it, but if it is as you say, I'll have a warrant out for his arrest to-night——"

"You will have to be swift, sir. I searched his overcoat which he left in the office. In the pocket I found a shipping list dealing with sailings for South America. I fancy he has laid his plans——"

"He won't get there. I'll have every ship watched; I'll bring him back and send him to prison. Ada, you and Hoey were fairly friendly. Don't let this upset you. I'll deal with him."

He rushed out to get his hat and coat. Wilkins raised his eyes to the face of the girl, who had stood still during his recital.

"I'm sorry to be the bearer of such news, Miss Ada, but it was my duty."

The girl sat down suddenly, clasping her hands in her lap. Her eyes were fixed on Harvey Wilkins's face.

"I don't believe a word of it," she said quietly.

Wilkins merely bowed. He knew that Hoey had been friendly with Ada Mynes, and her disbelief in his story let him see how deep that friendship had been; but he held the whip handle. Time would change her. Circumstances would make her alter her ideas. One thing at a time, he told himself. Hoey had disappeared. That was enough for a day.

He went down to the office with Mr. Mynes. He showed him the evidence he had arranged. He repeated his statements. He advised caution, suggesting that the news need not be published broadcast as it would damage the firm. He went with the factory owner to the police station and laid the information. On the sworn evidence of Wilkins and Mynes a warrant for the arrest of Gilbert Hoey was made out, and the network of police resources began to operate. By telephone and telegraph every port was notified of the disappearance of Hoey. Harvey Wilkins was congratulated by his employer and went home to bed.

That he was a murderer did not disturb him. Who was there to say it had been murder? Who could find the body of a man who had been consumed in a flash of fireworks? The crucibles would be emptied by the morning, the metal would be turned into moulds, into rails, ships' propellers, pig iron—a hundred different matters. Giant rollers would soon be pressing out this particular cauldron's contents into long sheets. These would be rolled up again and pounded by great steam-hammers into the form desired. Gilbert Hoey had disappeared like a puff of smoke. The boiling metal had not only killed him—it had also wiped out every trace of the incident.

The following morning Wilkins went down to the works as usual. On his way he called at the police station to see how far they had gone. The inspector who had seen him the previous night was not at the desk, but his substitute told Wilkins all the news they had. Hoey's description would be telegraphed up and down the country. His rooms had been searched, and his belongings were intact. He had not been traced.

"I expect he fled when I challenged him," said Wilkins. "He didn't even take time to pack a suitcase. He must have been scared badly."

"I expect so," said the officer drily. "I can't give you any more information, as I'm not in charge of the case."

Wilkins went to his office feeling surer than ever. He had put dust into the eyes of the law. He smiled to think of the police watching ports, railway stations, roads, hotels—looking for a man who would never be found.

Mr. Mynes did not come to the office at his usual time, and Wilkins continued his work leisurely. He was at his desk just before lunch time, when the door of his office opened. Miss Ada Mynes walked in and took a seat. She left the door ajar. Wilkins rose to find a chair for her near his desk, but she waved him back to his seat. There was a strangeness about her he had never seen before. She was all strung up, but she was holding herself in check.

"I came to you because the police can't say what I want to say," she said. "I came to hear about the disappearance of Gilbert Hoey."

"If I can be of any help, Miss Mynes, I shall be glad; but the police have the matter in hand, and your father——"

"My father knows I am here. I told him I was coming."

"If he gave you permission that is all right, Miss Ada. What is it you want to know?"

"Everything."

"I can tell only what I myself know."

"That may be enough."

The tone struck him. It was antagonistic, but she was nervous and was trying to control herself. Her eyes were on his face—eyes that seemed to be gimlets. There was no escaping them. He sought to pacify her, beginning to tell once more the story he had told the previous night. She waved it aside.

"I have come to ask questions."

Again that tone—strange, incisive, charged with meaning. He suddenly felt the sharpness of it. It was the tone of a terrier; without snarl, without growl; the tone of a terrier when it is about to worry. Persistent and annoying.

"I told you yesterday I did not believe your story," she said in a level tone. "I repeat that now. Gilbert Hoey is no defaulter."

"You were friendly with him, Miss Ada; but that does not alter facts."

"Why do you say 'were'? Why speak in the past tense?"

He saw the grimness with which she thrust the question at him; but he smiled. He knew that she felt the situation keenly. She was fighting for Hoey's reputation. He would be easy with her, since she was a woman; a woman whom he wanted in his own time.

"I used the past tense because I hardly think you can remain friendly with him after this. Your father would object, I fear."

"Leave my father out of it. I was yesterday more than friendly with Mr. Hoey."

"Indeed. I did not know it had gone so far."

"That is why I am here."

Again the biting tone gave him the impression of a terrier. It was as if a household pet had become an enemy. He saw a strain of her father in her then; the strong, determined forcefulness of the parent was coming out in the child. He admired her for it.

"Ask your questions," he said, leaning back in his chair.

She drummed her fingers on the desk for a moment, looking at him from under her eyelashes.

"When Mr. Hoey came down to the office last evening, did he go into the works?"

"No."

"Sure?"

"Positive."

"He told me you had invited him to look at the cauldron."

"I cannot help what he told you, Miss Mynes."

"We have proof that he did not leave this town last night."

"Who has proof?"

"The police. I have been with them all night. Mr. Hoey did not go by train. We inquired at the booking office. He did not go by car. His own is still in the garage. No car was hired. We have been to every car owner, every hirer there is."

"If he did not leave the town he must be about somewhere. Let the police find him."

There was a sneer in the taunt he flung at her—a sneer that had been his natural retort.

"Was there any need for him to steal the money?"

"His bank balance was not large, I believe, Miss Mynes."

"You know that?"

"He made no secret of it."

She bit her lip. The terrier in her attitude had received a check; but she tried another grip. Just like a terrier.

"Mr. Hoey told me yesterday that he was coming down to see how a casting was going on. You say he did not look at any casting?"

"That is what I have told you."

"The furnaces were preparing a job of which he was in charge?"

"Yes."

"He was expecting to leave for the Continent in a few days to superintend this job's delivery?"

"Yes."

"The money in his care was for payment of his men who were going with him?"

"Yes."

"It was not a large amount?"

"It was over a thousand pounds. There were other expenses he was to clear off—quite large enough to be a temptation when I had challenged his books."

"You expected to get this job?"

"Your father preferred him."

"You were rivals in the factory?"

"Not rivals; co-workers."

"You told me once you were rivals."

"When?"

"The day you told me you were in love with me; the day I told you I did not desire your affection."

"Oh, I may have said that in a moment of disappointment at finding you liked Hoey."

"You asked my father for a partnership?"

"Yes, and he declined—for the present. What do you mean by raking up these things?"

"I want to prove that you were rivals."

"And then?"

"I am seeking a motive."

The terrier was there openly, defiantly, frankly, facing the fox that had covered his tracks. There was no use hiding the situation longer. It was a duel between them. Her eyes told him more than her words. Had she been a stranger, a detective, he would have shown her the door. But she was the daughter of his employer. He became frigid.

"A motive for what?" he demanded.

"A motive for Gilbert Hoey's disappearance."

The sudden suspicion that had flamed in his mind died down. She was floundering, he told himself; floundering in her use of words because of her anxiety for Hoey. He felt that he could handle her. Was she not, after all, only a woman? She would forget Hoey in time.

"I see," he said gently. "You are seeking a motive for his running away."

"For his disappearance."

"It is the same thing."

"Perhaps."

"Do you mean to suggest any other explanation?"

Now was his time, he thought, to bully her into reason! They were alone. He would frighten her, as she had almost frightened him. He knew he was safe. The cauldron of molten metal would tell no tales. The fox is seldom afraid of one dog. But he runs from a pack. This girl was hysterical, he told himself; she needed to go home and rest.

"I am very busy this morning, Miss Mynes. If you don't mind I would suggest that you take things easy and do not worry. Hoey may not have been worthy of your thoughts. And really you ought not to come here and question me. It is most unusual——"

"Many things are unusual. But they are sometimes necessary."

"What do you mean?"

"You will learn in time. I have a few more questions to ask."

"Very well. Ask them. But I shall tell your father I have been interrupted——"

"Has the metal which was in the cauldron last night been poured off?"

"Yes, by the night gang."

"So that the machinery above would be oiled and cleaned to-day?"

"I gave orders for it to be done this morning. I expect it has been attended to. We are very busy."

"It has not been attended to."

"Why not?"

"The police decided that it was to be left as it was. No workmen have been near it."

"Indeed?" cried Wilkins; and there was, for the first time, a hint of alarm in his tone.

The girl leaned across the desk. Her mood was that of the terrier more than ever; a terrier that has got a hold at last.

"If any sand or grit were in that cauldron with the metal it would be skimmed off or the casting would be spoiled, would it not?"

"Yes, but what——"

The answer was a movement by the girl. She slammed a small package on the desk and separated the blackened, ruined fragments as she raised her finger. The terrier had the fox in a corner.

"See this? It is the remains of a meerschaum pipe in an asbestos case which I gave to Gilbert Hoey yesterday evening before he came down here. This was fished out of the cauldron."

Wilkins gave a stifled cry. He felt his feet slipping, but he was crafty.

"He may have thrown it into the cauldron!" he cried.

"But you said he did not go to the works! You said he never left this office!"

There was a silence. Wilkins knew then that he was faced by a girl who was fighting to avenge her lover with all the subtlety of a woman's nature. She was more than terrier then. But she had no proof. This was his trump card. She had no proof. It was merely intuition that had prompted her. He faced the terrier and steadied himself with an effort.

"He may have gone without my seeing him," he declared quickly.

For a moment the terrier lost her hold. But she came back to it.

"The police want your finger-prints!" she cried, jumping to her feet.

"What for?" he countered.

"Do you not see on this asbestos case are Gilbert Hoey's initials in platinum? I gave him the case. It takes a greater heat than that of molten iron to melt platinum! He would not throw it away. He came down to look at the casting. He stood on the platform above the crucible. There is a sliding bar there, held by a pin. On that pin are finger-prints. They are his or yours. No one else has been there. The police have taken a print of these fingers, to compare with the prints on the typewritten message."

"You can prove nothing!" he cried. "He fell in! It was an accident! It was an accident!"

The fox was at his last ditch; a safe one, he was sure. But the terrier pursued him, knowing she was near victory.

She ran to the door and threw it open. There, in the next room, stood her father, the police inspector, and another man who was busy with a note-book.

"Our talk has been taken down in shorthand," she cried. "The defence you put up could not have been torn down by ordinary methods, so I came alone to you. I accuse you of murder!"

The fox had still his last defence.

"It was an accident!" he cried. "You cannot prove anything!"

"You were seen!"

Harvey Wilkins stared at his accuser, then at the inspector; at the man who was busy with his pencil, at his employer. He dropped into a chair.

"In that case," he muttered, "it is useless to deny it. I confess. I pulled the pin and let him fall into the cauldron."

A cry from the girl startled him. She had played her trump card. It had broken down his defence. The inspector stepped forward. Wilkins raised his head.

"Who saw me?" he asked hoarsely. "Bring your witness. Was it you?"

"No," she answered. "God!"

The fox had been tricked.