THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE THIRD CELL

"I admit," said the visitor, who seemed to have thoroughly enjoyed the stories he had just heard, "I admit that a generalisation does not always work in regard to women any more than in regard to anything else. In both the instances you have given, however, the flaw was that the people concerned (whom you would call the criminals) did not get away quick enough. They delayed their exit."

"Pardon me," said the Governor, "if I suggest that there have been cases where swift flight has been on the side of the culprit and yet, through some unknown, some subtle, misgiving, some unexplainable cause, it has availed him nothing in the end. And this has happened not because the pursuers have known where to find their man. It is one of the strange things of crime that always, somewhere, at the most unexpected moments, the flaw appears and the whole fabric of defence and escape falls to dust. I hold that in case after case the criminal defeats himself."

"Not if he knows his objective and goes straight for it," retorted the visitor. "Now, I know my objective——"

"So did Samuel Vining," interrupted the Governor. "And yet Samuel Vining is at the present moment the occupant of the third cell in the corridor beneath us. He is one of those who will pay with his life for his error. Since his is a very remarkable case, I propose to relate his experience in support of what I say."

The visitor settled himself in his chair and helped himself to another cigarette, while the Governor took a sip of whisky and soda and cleared his throat.

There was nothing subtle (began the Governor) about the murder committed by Samuel Vining. He struck down a man in the bar of a small public-house during a heated argument—buried a seaman's knife to the hilt in the man's side. There the victim lay, his glazing eyes turned towards the ceiling. It had been the deed of a moment. When the bystanders realised that the man was dead, Vining had disappeared.

He had not more than half an hour's start of the police, but half an hour is a long time when a man is speeding from justice. Vining had the world to roam, the whole earth in which to hide. His impulse was to flee. He boarded a bus going westward and took a ticket to the terminus, not knowing where the route would lead him. His main object was to get away, to get away, to get away! The desire to escape from humanity surged through his brain. Did he repent of his crime? Repentance was nothing. Punishment was the avenging force he had to escape from. Repentance was an inward thing. Punishment was not anything he could decide. That was in the hands of those who were pursuing him at that very moment.

When the bus reached its journey's end he continued along the country road. He had no idea where it would lead. He did not, for the moment, care. Sometimes he ran, but he found running consumed his energy too quickly, so he walked mainly. The night was dark, but the stars were out. The road was lonely except for an occasional motor-car going towards, or coming from, London. He drew into the hedge when the cars passed, hiding from them. The stars told him he was walking south. In the south was the sea. This thought gave him some comfort.

By dawn he was so weary that he was almost dropping from exhaustion; but he stumbled on, blindly getting away! He was passing through undulating country by this time. In the meadows he saw occasional houses. Workers were stirring. A labourer could be seen in the paths now and then. Dogs awoke and barked. The barks sent a shiver through Vining's frame. They were like warnings, challenges to him. They were the voices of civilisation telling him that he was observed. This made him hurry once more. He reflected that the police were on his trail, searching for him everywhere. Their net would be cast in the city, the telephones would be bearing messages, the telegraph would be issuing calls for his arrest. How could he defeat these means? Not by swiftness, but by cunning.

At a bend in the road he came upon a road-mender seated beside a heap of stones. Beside the roadman was a can of tea, and in a red handkerchief was his early morning meal. A newspaper was spread over his knees. He looked up as Vining approached.

They stared at each other for a moment. The road-mender spoke.

"Bin on the road for a bit, I reckon. Goin' to the coast, hey?"

"How do you know I've been on the road for a bit?" demanded Vining challengingly.

"Humph! By the dust on your clothes. Makin' for the coast?"

"Yes."

"It's a tidy way. Well over a score of miles. Hastings lies over the hill yonder."

"Does it?"

"Nearer a score and a half of miles. I've seen a few walkers to the coast in my time. They generally walk durin' the night. Cooler, I dassay. You're fagged out."

"Give me something to eat."

It was more a demand than a request, and the road-mender lifted his eyes from the newspaper suddenly, then dropped them again to the printed page.

"Take what you want," he said, his tone changing. "There's tea, an' bread, an' cheese, an' a scrap of meat."

Vining slumped down on the roadside and started to eat ravenously. He finished the man's allowance and drank the tea. The food gave him strength, and the tea washed the dust from his parched throat. The road-mender was watching him, his right hand holding his long, thin hammer close to his side. Suddenly he rose to his feet, moving off backward.

"Where are you going?" demanded Vining quickly.

"For help."

"Help? What for?"

"I know you. Think you can escape, do you? It's in the newspapers about you. At first I didn't think—but I bin watchin' you. The dust of you gave you away."

"The dust?" echoed Vining dully.

"It told me you'd bin walkin', an' then I looked at the paper. It says that a man named Sam Vining, a seaman, killed another man in a pub in the East End last night. You're him—Vining."

"How do you know?"

"The dust told me you'd bin walkin', then I read your description. It's there—in print. Medium-sized, broad, dressed in shabby navy suit, tattoo marks on the back of right hand, brown eyes, mole on left temple, black-and-white check cap. That's you. They have a photo, too—not very like you, but near enough; must have bin taken a while ago. You killed this man because of a woman. She gave the police a lot of information. Her name is there."

"Sarah," muttered Vining hoarsely.

"That's it—Sarah. Sarah something. It's you, isn't it?"

"It is me. What about it?"

"Your number's up."

The road-mender was moving farther off, still walking backwards.

"Where are you going?" asked Vining.

The roadman pointed to a hollow beyond the road, from which a thin trickle of smoke issued among the trees.

"Down there is a village. A policeman lives there. I'm going to tell him. Better come with me quietly. Give yourself up. Come on. I've got you."

He stood erect, swinging his long, thin hammer by his side. Vining made a movement as if he was about to rise.

"Don't try to escape," warned the road-mender. "I can throw this hammer straight as a die!"

Vining put his hand on the stones to raise himself. Next moment he fired one—a jagged rock that took the road-mender on the cheek. Vining was used to slinging pins and tools aboard ship. The road-mender went down, blood spurting from his cheek. Vining was gone by the time he gathered himself up.

Down the road, then through a gap in the hedge into the meadows, went the fugitive, bending almost double as he dodged along ditches and under cover of hedges. From a nook he saw the policeman, some time later, go along the road on a bicycle at a great speed. He watched the officer's helmet disappear round a bend; then he struck deeper into the meadows.

The one thing that stuck in his mind was that he was within possible distance of the coast. He knew the general position of Hastings. It was south of Dungeness point; and Dungeness was almost opposite Cape Gris Nez. If only he could take a boat at Hastings he could row to Gris Nez. His tiredness seemed to lift as the plan came to him.

But before he stole a boat he had to get to the coast; and before he got to the coast he had to travel unseen during a long day. He decided to sleep for a few hours. He slept in a dry ditch in a small wood.

When he awoke, the sun's position told him it was late afternoon. He was hungry. He had a few shillings in his pocket; but what was money if he dared not show his face to human beings? He searched for a brook, found one, and bathed his hands and face in the muddy water. It was cooling at any rate. He even drank some of it. As he dried himself with his handkerchief he pondered the situation.

"They are all against me," he muttered, "but I'll win through. At Gris Nez I'll ship off—anywhere! They always want firemen—on coasters—anything!"

He recollected suddenly that to get a job he must show discharge papers from his previous ships. For an instant the thought staggered him; but only for an instant.

"I'll knock somebody down and take his papers. Then I'll pretend I'm dumb. I only want to get to Gris Nez."

This became his passion, the objective to which his mind clung. Gris Nez! Gris Nez! He rose and stumbled on.

Towards night he was near the hill which the road-mender had pointed out. But he was again exhausted. Not used to marching, the fatigue was telling on him; on mind as on body. He sat down by the edge of a cornfield and closed his eyes.

Suddenly he heard voices. He dived into the corn, flattening the grain as he floundered along. The voices grew louder. He lay down. A man was calling.

"Dick, where'd you put the rake?"

Another voice answered unintelligibly. The sound of someone thrusting his way along the edge of the field came nearer. An exclamation burst out, and the first voice called harshly:

"Someone's gone and trampled the corn down. If I only got hold of him——"

Another step brought the man almost on top of Vining. The latter did not wait for the alarm to be raised. He jumped to his feet and attacked.

It was all done so suddenly that the farm worker had no chance to defend himself. He went down before the onslaught, kicking and struggling, but Vining was desperate. He pounded the man into unconsciousness and left him. Rising to his feet he ran—straight through the cornfield.

He heard voices as he ran, but he took no heed. He did not stop until he reached the opposite end of the field. As he forced his way through the hedge he looked back. Two men were pursuing, smashing their way through the corn in his wake. Vining gritted his teeth. He had laid a trail of flattened grain which was impossible to mistake. The harvest of the fields was aiding his enemies.

He broke through the hedge and ran. Fear gave fleetness to his feet, but he did not know the ground. There were rabbit-holes which hurt his ankles when he stepped into them. There were hidden hillocks, mounds, rushes, tufts of grass, that seemed to try to impede him. He crashed on, labouring like a wounded animal. He ran for nearly an hour. When he stopped there was no sign nor sound of his pursuers.

"They'll come after me," he muttered. "They know the country, and I don't. They'll come after me. I'll keep to the hill——What was that?"

From somewhere behind he heard the bark of a dog, the baying of a hound. His heart stood still. They were pursuing him by scent! Their dogs could come where a vehicle could not follow. What was to be done? His right ankle suddenly bent under him. He fell as a sharp pain shot up his leg. He had put his foot into a rabbit-hole.

The shooting pain made him, for the moment, forget his pursuers. He could hardly rise, but he got on his feet by strength of will and hobbled on. As he toiled along he cast his eyes about. What was he looking for? He found it soon enough in that natural backyard. A thick branch of a tree lay on the ground. He tore it up and sat down to wait.

The baying came nearer. It was almost dark now. If only he could get one good blow at the dog, that was all he asked. One blow would be enough. Samuel Vining knew how to strike.

He sat motionless, waiting. Suddenly something that seemed to be a part of the gloom swept past him. He caught a glimpse of a brown, furry animal which leaped aside as he stirred, and vanished suddenly.

"A hare," he thought. "The dog has disturbed it."

He had no time to think more, for just then there broke on his ears a deep bay, and a white dog plunged into view. Vining gripped his club and waited, tense for the stroke.

The dog was running to a scent. He had his nose to the ground. Vining drew back to make sure his arms had the swing he wanted. He held the branch aloft. The dog came straight towards him. Vining struck.

It was a terrible blow, with all the force of a pair of powerful shoulders behind it. The rough branch caught the dog on the head just above the eyes. Such a blow would have killed a man.

The club was shattered, the dog's breath came in a strange gasp, its body crumpled up and rolled over. Vining scrambled to his feet as he heard other dogs in the distance.

"They've sent a pack after me," he cried. "That one will stop them."

He staggered into the gathering gloom, making his direction towards a small wood that clung to the hill-side. He heard no more from his pursuers, but when he lay down he was surprised to see that his hands trembled. A peculiar throbbing was in his breast, the blood was pounding in his ears, his teeth were chattering. He was not cold. He was perspiring. Through his body the trembling continued; he was shaking as if he had ague. It was his nerve that had deserted him.

Samuel Vining did not know the psychology of his case. He had never heard of psychology. All he knew was that he was feeling "done in." His vision was becoming blurred. His mind had become rusty, almost incapable of acting. He started at the least sigh of the wind, the slightest rustle of the trees.

"Gris Nez!" he muttered constantly. "Gris Nez! Hastings, then Gris Nez!"

When he tried to sleep he found it impossible. He could not even rest. The ground was hard, the surface uneven. His body was pained, his limbs ached. Hunger did not trouble him, but thirst did. He felt terribly thirsty. It is a peculiar fact that nervousness brings thirst; dry, cracked thirst which cannot be relieved.

"Hastings," he cried suddenly. "I must get to Hastings! Then Gris Nez! Before morning!"

But, though he cried aloud his necessity, he lay where he was, unable for the time being to rise and make the effort to march. Was this conscience? Conscience did not trouble Samuel Vining. It was merely exhaustion of mind and body that was lashing at him, wearing him down with a grinding pressure that was irresistible. He went over the events of the murder and his subsequent actions slowly and methodically, dwelling on every point with a mind that was strung up to high tension.

He could not stop thinking of the past twenty-four hours. He could not sleep. The fear of the dogs was upon him. He could not rest. A strange paradox was present within him, one part of him declaring for repose, the other clamouring for action. He was hardly able to keep still. At last he rose, bound his handkerchief about his injured ankle, and stumbled on. He broke off a stick from a tree to aid him as he marched.

Things were becoming vague, but his mind was clear, strange as the seeming contradiction may be. He was constantly remembering the incidents of his flight and his escapes. His brain was fumbling at the problem, searching for a way out. It ought to be comparatively easy for him to make his escape. Why had he not done so? Why had these people come upon his trail? Like a flash he saw, and he uttered an exclamation as the reason struck him like a blow.

Man was his enemy. From man he need expect no aid. He had run from the face of man. In the wide fields he ought to have found the solitude he sought; but he had found the woods and meadows willing to give him up. The dust of the main road had betrayed him to the road-mender. The cornfield had betrayed him to the farm hands. The scent of his clothes had betrayed him to the hounds. Where could he escape from this accusing Nature? The answer came as swiftly as the question was uttered.

"Hastings! Then Gris Nez!"

The sea would hide him as she hid untold secrets. That was it. Let him get back to the sea, his natural element, and he would put his pursuers to confusion! He was at home where the sea was. This land, where roads were unsheltered and meadows were cultivated, was his enemy also. He toiled on, filled with a new hope and trembling resolve.

He did not know how many hours he walked, but he kept his position by the big hill. He understood that this hill was part of the white cliffs he had seen so often from the Channel. He reached the shoulder of the hill when the night was still dark. He stopped, raised his head, and sniffed. A new tang came to him. It was the tang of the sea.

He pushed his way round the shoulder and saw the Channel at his feet. The lights of a town twinkled away to his right, the long promenade showing up like an uneven line of burning matches.

"That is Hastings," he told himself. "There are caves among the cliffs."

He had heard, like many others, of the caves which were at one time used by the smugglers of the coast. He determined to find one of these caves and stay there for the next day. From the cave he could mark a boat, and go for it as soon as the following night covered his movements. He was jubilant, for in the darkness he felt that many boats were lying there.

He crawled down the hill facing the sea, moving slowly because his strained ankle pained him, and because he was on dangerous ground. The dawn broke grey and sullen while he searched for a cave. By its light he found what he wanted, a hole in the shoulder of the cliff into which he could crawl. It was reached by a narrow, scarcely visible track, and was in a part of the cliff which visitors were not likely to roam. Vining drew himself into the hole and lay down his full length, gazing out to sea.

The wash of the waves on the shingle sounded eerily, but above the wash and rattle of the shingle came a cry that thrilled his bones and caused him to sit up in swift alarm.

"Get away! Get away!"

The command came unexpectedly, high pitched, with the muffled blur of a voice shouting in a strong wind. To Vining the words were a cataclysmic disturbance. He had been seen! He leaned far out of the cave, his hair on end, his nerves tingling.

A bird flew past the opening of the cave—a white gull with grey wings and open beak.

"You can't see me!" he called in wild derision, a swift defiance in his tone.

He waited in suspense for a reply, expecting to hear a challenge, an order to surrender. None came.

The bird that had flown past the cave swung back again, a beautiful thing sailing against the lightening sky. He saw its outline moving steadily, perfectly poised, with outstretched wings, beating up against the cold breeze that heralded dawn. It swung close to him, its little beak open, its feet dangling, ready to alight. He lost it in the gloom.

The waves breaking on the shingle surged far up the beach, then swept back, and the stones rattled down after the receding water with a noise like thick hail.

"Who are you, anyway?"

Vining shouted to make himself heard above the clatter of the shingle, but he was conscious that his voice was drowned in the noise. He shouted a third time. There was no reply. Only the swish of the spent waves and the rattle of the rolling pebbles came to him.

"There's someone down there," he muttered uneasily. "Someone was calling."

Fear came to him in renewed force. Had he been trailed? Had someone, some night prowler, seen him descend to the cave? Or was it his fancy? Was it possible that no one had called, no one at all? Were his ears deceiving him? Was his nerve gone?

He put his hands to his head, which was aching and throbbing, and held his temples. His hands trembled. He was shaking all over. As he crouched there, a wretched figure, afraid, scared, shivering with cold, and with the thrill of his breaking spirit racing within him, he heard it again.

"Get away! Get away!"

There was no mistaking it, though the call was much fainter. It came to him borne on the wind, a cry from far up the beach.

"Get away!"

He bounded to his feet, every shred of his former self abandoned, every sinew urging him to action.

"All right," he cried. "I'll get away! I'll get away!"

He had been seen. Someone had observed him. He had stumbled on to a forbidden piece of the cliff. Was it a watchman who had seen him and had warned him to go away? It could not be the police. They would not have warned him to go away! They would have come and taken him. He dared not wait there. The observer would give information of his presence. The police would come to investigate. He would be found, and then—the scaffold!

The land was his enemy. His soul clamoured for the sea and the things of the sea. He knew the sea. He had sailed on it for years—deep-water sailing, out of the sight of land and human beings. The sea would cover him, and his pursuers would be baffled.

The land was for landsmen. The police worked on land. The land had betrayed him thrice already—first by the dust of the road, next by the corn in the meadow, then by the scent of his clothes. The land had tried to hinder his escape; it had tried to maim him. How he cursed the rabbit-hole that had sprained his ankle!

Dawn was coming up in the east. He must move at once, before his pursuers came after him. He would go down and take a boat at once and be off before daylight—off to Gris Nez! He would outwit the unseen observer, and be halfway across the Channel before the boat was missed.

Crawling out of his cave, he toiled slowly and painfully up the cliff, stopping every now and then to listen. Once he heard the call, but it sounded far away, almost like an echo.

"Get away! Get away!"

He smiled grimly to himself. The observer was on the wrong tack, evidently moving towards the town, while he moved in the opposite direction. The dawn was present by this time—a grey dawn—but daylight was coming fast. Every minute brought more light. Now was his time to get to the beach and choose his boat from those he could see lying about the shingle.

He reached the crest of the hill, intending to descend on the other side; but, as he peered over the ridge, he heard cries and shouts and saw a strange sight. Coming along the top of the cliff was a pack of hounds—brown and white hounds, like the one he had slain in the meadow. They were coming straight for him; and behind them were men on horseback. He had no time to think, no time to do anything except rise to his feet and strike at the foremost dog as he had struck before. This time he did not kill, but he sent the animal howling to the rear; and, as he saw the pack breasting the hill, he took to his heels.

Oblivious of the pain in his ankle, he ran towards the sloping cliff. He had no time to select his place of descent, but he found one. He slid, rolled, bumped, towards the shore, landing in a heap on the shingle. He was up again, and ran towards the boats. They were after him. He saw some men on horseback shaking their whips at him and shouting. He did not care. His hands were on a boat, but he could not move it alone. He looked out to the sea. A small fishing-boat bobbed to the swell less than a hundred yards from the beach. He ran into the sea and struck out for it.

"Gris Nez! Gris Nez!" he called. He would show them some sailing! Was he not a seaman? He swam fast and reached the fishing-boat, hauling himself aboard by a fender. He did not trouble to look at his enemies. He had too much to do to escape. The anchor-rope refused to come; he cut the line in desperation and began to haul the sail up as he drifted.

"Get away! Get away!"

The command startled him, so clear was it, so sharp. His fingers let go the rope, the sail dropped, crumpling up in a tangled mass. He looked aloft, and saw a little white gull, with grey wings, perched on the masthead, and above it another gull wheeled and circled.

Vining was still staring at the gulls when a motor-boat ran alongside his drifting craft. Over the gun-wale men clambered and faced him. One was a policeman, but a man in the garb of a huntsman thrust his way forward and pointed to Vining.

"That is the man, constable. We had a dog killed yesterday, and that broke the chase, and we routed out a cub this morning, and chased it along the cliff, when this man——"

"I killed the dog in the meadow yesterday. I am Samuel Vining."

"The murderer!" cried the constable. "We have been watching for you."

Samuel Vining did not move, though the others shrank from him. He was staring insanely at the gulls overhead.

The wild things of the sea had joined forces with the wild things of the land to betray him. There had just penetrated his tossing brain the knowledge that it was no human voice that bade him run from the cave where he might have lain unobserved and safe.

What he had imagined, in his anxiety, to be a watcher's warning was merely the call of the little, grey-backed bird, the Jenny gull, the kittiwake, that gets its name because of its chatter, so imitative of a plaintive human call.

Kittiwake! Kittiwake!

Get away! Get away!