THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE TENTH CELL

I am living in hopes (said the Governor) that one day—though I may not see it (at this the visitor slightly inclined his head and laid his hand on his revolver)—criminals will realise that crime does not pay. For the time being, however, the difficulty is that whenever one man is taken and sent to prison another seems to step into his place. Thus crime appears to be continuous, though it could be proved by analytical discussion that it is not so. However that may be, it was evident to those whose duty it is to observe such things that Eckhardt, the receiver of stolen property, must find a crook to take the place of Mackintosh.

Up to this point, mark you, Eckhardt was merely under suspicion. The law could not lay its hands on him for lack of evidence—that is, evidence that would produce a conviction in a court of law. There was plenty of suspicion against Eckhardt, all the same, but suspicion is not evidence. But it was noticed that Eckhardt did find somebody else to do odd jobs for him, jobs that never brought him into conflict with the police, but were again suspicious.

This man was a young member of an East End company of loafers and hangers-on. His name was Tommy Conn. He openly boasted of being a burglar, but he took care that boasting was all that could be said about it. After he became friendly with Eckhardt he ceased to boast—itself a circumstance worth noting.

Conn will interest us after we have dealt with Bill Hemsey, for Conn occupied, in some ways, the same position in relation to Eckhardt as Bill Hemsey did in regard to Jimmy Sockem. That is to say, both were minor crooks who worked under the directions and suggestions of their leaders.

It was Jimmy Sockem who had put Hemsey up to the idea of taking the rent money of old Luke Kohl, the Jew who owned property in the lower reaches of the Thames. And so, on the evening that he was expected to reach the house-boat, we find Bill Hemsey on his business of annexing these rents.

Bill was not high up in the scale of criminal cunning, but he was high enough to know that he could lift the money belonging to Kohl if he worked properly. As a matter of fact, he found the actual theft easier than he had imagined it would be. He went to Kohl's house prepared for some sort of opposition, and he found none.

I think you will remember that Jimmy Sockem, during his talk with Ben Foss on the house-boat, grumbled because Bill Hemsey had said he was going to see his girl that same evening. The truth was that Bill needed his girl's help to get away with the swag, but she did not know it; or, rather, one ought to say that Bill needed the help of his girl's father, but neither did the father know it. They were not the sort of people who would have aided him had they known.

All these things come out at trials, and the trial of Hemsey resulted in him losing more than his liberty, much as he prized that.

Here, then, we have Bill in possession of the bag of money, and standing in the small back shop of Kohl, listening intently for sounds from above. No sounds came. Bill had entered the shop by the back door when Kohl was upstairs at tea. He had found the bag on the top of the safe. He opened it to make sure that the money was there. It was all there in notes and silver. Bill sighed with delight.

He snapped the catch and was on the point of leaving the shop when he thought he heard a step on the stairs. He braced himself, prepared for a struggle. But it was a false alarm. Nobody came downstairs. Hemsey did not wait. He took a firm grip on the handle and walked out by the door which he had forced in order to enter.

He went over the yard wall, and turned towards the main thoroughfare feeling that he wanted to laugh. It had been so simple that he could hardly believe it. Yet there was the money in the black handbag, the small canister of pepper which he had intended to shoot towards Kohl's eyes was in his pocket, unused, and not a soul had observed his way of entry. He had left no finger-prints on the door or anywhere about. He still wore the leather gloves he had drawn on his hands before he committed the crime. And he was nearly two hundred pounds richer than he had been a few minutes previously.

It all proved, he told himself, how easy things could be done if one took the trouble to lay the scheme beforehand. In this case he had certainly been very careful. With care comes success, in crime as in respectability. Honesty and lawlessness both require consideration.

Bill Hemsey had known about how old Kohl collected his rents for some time, though Bill did not belong to the district. There had been more than one attempt by the roughs of the riverside streets to waylay old Kohl and grab his money-bag, but these attempts had always been frustrated because old Kohl, if he was feeble and rich, was also decidedly suspicious. He knew that the bad men of the Thames wharves were anxious to purloin his money in the dark corners through which he had to pass when he collected the rents; but those who had tried to snatch his bag found it was fastened by a light, strong, steel chain to his waist. Thus a thief who wanted the bag and its contents must take Luke Kohl also; and no thief wanted his screaming accuser to accompany the loot.

Besides the chain, Luke Kohl had another means of protection. This was a police whistle, and on the occasions when he had been molested he had sounded his whistle while the would-be robbers tugged at the bag. They had been captured before they had run the length of a street, for the police were generally in the vicinity, thanks to Kohl's anxious requests for their services.

These were difficulties which Bill Hemsey had to overcome before he could possess the rent money of Luke Kohl, but Bill had found a way to beat the opposition. If Kohl was crafty, Bill was more crafty. He found the weak link in Kohl's armour. That link was Rachel, the old man's daughter.

Rachel lived with her parents in rooms above their small bric-à-brac shop. She was neither beautiful nor the reverse. She was "homely," getting on in years for a maiden. She met Bill Hemsey at a local dance-hall. It was not an accidental meeting so far as Bill was concerned, for he had come to the hall with the distinct intention of becoming acquainted with Rachel. He met her several times afterwards, he spent money taking her to the cinemas, to local music-halls, to various places where cheap amusement was to be found up West. He walked out with her two evenings a week for a month, and by that time he had wormed his way into her affections and knew the whole routine of her father's business, even down to where he placed his bag with the rent money when he brought it home. The bag was placed on the top of the safe in the back shop while Kohl locked the front door and went upstairs to tea; after tea the bag was put, with the till, into the safe.

The taking of the bag was Bill's supreme crime. It was to be his final one. Working with Sockem, his business was to lift the ready money, take it up the river, and in return he was to get a share of Sockem's loot. This trading of stolen goods is done quite often, helping to baffle the police and making the real source of a robbery difficult to trace.

As for Rachel, she was not the girl to whom Sockem referred. Rachel was merely a pawn in Bill's game. Indeed, her friendship with Bill had been a little troublesome to him. She presumed more than he intended, and she had asked him on more than one occasion to come home and meet her parents. These invitations had always been side-tracked by Bill, who had no desire to step into what might be a trap for himself; he did not want to meet Luke Kohl, who might then be able to identify him at a crucial moment—for instance, when the pepper was being thrown into his eyes. So that Rachel might be well out of the way, Bill had written to her asking her to meet him at a point up West, and he had seen her start for the rendezvous. Exit Rachel from Bill's life.

As he walked along, Bill felt confident, and had not any anxiety. Nobody had seen him take the bag, nobody could accuse him of entering by the back door, not a soul knew that he was a petty thief and had been one for years. Between his "jobs" in crime he conducted a perfunctory street-corner business of bookmaking, a cloak for his other activities and a means of getting the information to enable him to carry them out. It was as a book-maker that his friends knew him; even Rene Toler, his real girl, whom he intended to marry almost immediately, regarded him as a sporting person. It was to her rooms that Bill Hemsey was now making his way.

He left the main thoroughfare and took to side streets, past one of the blocks of flats which Luke Kohl owned, the flats the rents of which were in the bag he carried. Tall dismal buildings, these were situated near the riverside, and let out in mean dwellings of single, double, and triple rooms. They were peopled by the casual workers of the docks, labourers of the river, the families who hung on to life by short spells of work sandwiched between periods of unemployment. It was because of this unreliability of income that Kohl collected his rents regularly, never allowing arrears to accumulate.

From the streets behind the river were many dark, narrow passages, sombre and badly lit by scattered street lamps. In front of the houses was the river front, a narrow flagged pathway. No railing or fence was erected by the river's edge, and here and there lonely barges from Gravesend and Tilbury squatted on the sticky mud that was squelchy as a quagmire when the tide was out. This ooze, three feet deep, was covered at full tide with sufficient water to float the barges and the boats of the water-men up to the wall of the river front.

During the daytime the "esplanade," as it was called by courtesy, was the rendezvous of loiterers and bargemen. By night the place was deserted save for an occasional boat that crossed the river as an unofficial ferry, since the nearest bridge was a considerable distance away. It was Rene's father who worked this spasmodic ferry.

Rene did not stay with her father. She worked in a laundry on the same side of the river as Bill had rooms, and she had given Bill proof of being able to look after his wants in the future by doing his washing and pressing his suits in her spare time. Pretty, hard-working, and capable, she was as straight as a fiddle-string, and Bill knew that she would make an ideal wife. She had no silly ideas of romance about her. Her one strong point was her profound common sense. It was because he was fond of her that Bill had made the raid on Luke Kohl's money; this, he told himself, was to be his last excursion into crime.

As she opened the door in answer to his knock, he was met by a rush of hot atmosphere from the apartment.

"Hullo," said Rene. "You're early."

"Better early than late," replied Bill, grinning. "What you busy at? Same old stuff, hey?"

He sat down on a chair and looked at the heap of washed clothes on the table at which she had been ironing. His reception had not been as cordial as he had hoped, but Rene was never demonstrative. Bill chuckled to think that he had now enough money to set the two of them up comfortably.

"Give us a kiss, Rene," he said.

He rose and advanced towards her, but she waved him aside and returned to her ironing table.

"What's the matter, Rene?"

She turned on him quickly.

"There isn't anything the matter with me," she flashed.

Her tone startled him for a moment, but he quickly dismissed his fears. She could not possibly know that he had money in the bag and that he had stolen it.

"Well, don't be funny," he grumbled, watching her all the time. "I told you I was coming over home with you to-night. I want to talk things over with your dad. Ain't you glad to see me? I've got an appointment, but I'll be back late."

"What things are you going to talk over?"

"About you and me. I was thinking we might get married soon."

"You said that a while ago."

"I know I did. But I hadn't the money."

"Have you got it now?"

He smiled. This was his great secret, the winning card he held up his sleeve.

"More'n you think, Rene. I'll show you what I've got all in good time. And your dad too. Did you ask him to bring his boat over for us, same as I said to you?"

"I told him."

"Well, stop working and let's go."

"There's plenty of time yet. Besides, I've got these things to iron, and the suit you left me has to be pressed. I promised I'd do it by to-night."

He gazed at her cunningly.

"How long will it take you?"

"I'll be finished in an hour."

"Mind if I stay here to watch you?"

"Please yourself."

"What's the matter with you, Rene? I come here to give you a pleasant surprise and you're hardly civil."

"If you found that I'd been flirting with other men you'd be mad too."

"Oh!"

He began to see the reason for her coldness. But before he could say anything she glanced at him from the hot iron her eye was following.

"You needn't deny it. You were seen."

"Who saw me?"

"I did."

"You're jealous, Rene, and there's nothing to worry about; honest, there ain't. I give you my word."

She was ironing determinedly, her lips straight and tight.

"It was only a business affair," he began.

"Business?" she scoffed.

"I'm telling you, Rene. It was business. A man has to be friendly with them that bring money to him."

"Has he to take them to the theatres?"

"It's good for business——"

"Or to dances?"

"It's good for——"

"Or buy them chocolates?"

"Aw, you needn't be jealous. There was nothing in it."

"Funny way of doing a betting business," she answered bitingly.

"Rene," he began, but stopped; for to make her understand he was bound to tell everything, and he dared not tell everything. The crime was his one secret which he must keep to himself, even if it was to be his last.

"It ain't the first time," she added. "You've been with her lots of times."

"I won't again, Rene."

"How do I know you're speaking the truth?"

"I give my oath on it. It was only business."

"What would you say if I started gadding about with men?"

He had not seen it this way, and the idea struck him forcibly, for he was fond of Rene in his way.

"What would you do?" she demanded.

"You wouldn't do that, Rene?"

"What if I did? Ain't I got the right to go to the cinema with a boy, if you go with a girl?"

He did not answer, but the look in his face was dour and ominous. She suddenly became afraid of him.

"It was only business," he muttered. "Just business."

He was standing at her elbow as she laid out his suit for the ironing process. There was something menacing in his attitude. Man-like, he did not understand her mental injury nor appreciate her point of view; his environment had never taught him that women had any right to question, yet he longed in a dull way to probe the suspicion her words had raised. She seemed to sense this, for she spoke quietly without looking at him.

"I didn't do it," she said simply. He breathed deeply, as if relieved.

"How long will you be at this job?"

"A bit yet."

"What about a drink of something?"

"I can't leave this. There's time enough before dad comes. You can go out for a drink. Come back in half an hour."

She glanced at the clock as she spoke.

"All right," he said, as he picked up his cap and kicked the leather bag under his chair. "I'll bring a bottle back for your dad. He can take it home with him."

"Didn't you say he was to meet us by the esplanade? He won't come up here——"

"Well, I'll give it him in the boat."

He clumped downstairs with something of his usual complacency gone from him. He had never been suspicious of Rene before. He was angry that she should want to know the reason he had been friendly with Rachel Kohl; and he dared not tell that. Even if he was forced to tell something of the truth, he had to hide his crime, for then Rene would tell her father, and her father would deny him the use of the boat. Bill Hemsey needed the boat that night. He could not chance taking a bus, or be seen walking in the streets with the bag. Kohl would have discovered the theft by this time and would have told the police. The police would be on the watch, and the only way to evade them was to get down to the dark esplanade and cross the river by boat. He would destroy the bag when he got to his rooms.

In fifteen minutes he returned to Rene's room, hugging three bottles of stout. He pushed the door open with his foot and entered. He heard voices. A young man about his own age was in the room.

"All right," he was saying, "I don't need to see you home if that's the case."

Bill Hemsey blundered in and placed the bottles on the tables. The stranger said he would be going. He went out, and Rene lifted from the table the coat she had been pressing. Bill wheeled as the door closed.

"Who was that?" he demanded.

"Jim Harlek. He lives next door to dad——"

"So that's why you asked me to go out and fetch a drink? You expected him here and thought I was better out of the way. He slunk off when he saw me. He came here to see you home——"

He shouted his accusations at her, giving her no chance to answer him. For the moment he was seeing red. All his suspicions were returned, flaming high. He saw it all. He had been duped, misled, deceived. He seized her shoulder in a fierce grip.

"So it's Jim Harlek! He came to see you home. Don't deny it. Up here in your room. That's why you said I was early. You expected him. You sent me out so's you could warn him I was here. Tit for tat, hey? That's because you were jealous. Thought you'd pay me out——"

"Bill, you're hurting me!"

"Hurting you! I'll hurt you more. Mine was business. You can't say that about Jim Harlek. And you said you hadn't done anything like that——"

"Let go!" she cried, wriggling from him; but he pursued her, anger raging and flushing his face.

"I'll teach you," he cried. "Playing that trick on me."

"What about the trick you played on me? What about Rachel Kohl? What about the theatres and the dances and the letters you wrote her?"

"That was business, I tell you."

"I don't believe it."

"Maybe you'll say that Jim Harlek came here on business? I'll find out about you and him. I'll teach you——"

"Let go! Let go!"

She struggled to free herself from his grasp, and the more she struggled the more he raged at her. The very resistance she made seemed to his inflamed brain to be proof that she was guilty of deception. And because he was then incapable of reason he kept up a torrent of accusation, a cataract of threats and insinuations, the words pouring from him as he shook her. He beat down the opposition she had at first shown. He silenced her by the ferocity of his wrath; and then he flung her into a chair.

"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."