THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE TWELFTH CELL

I have already decided (continued the Governor), and I think you will agree with me, that Conn's place is among the Intelligents. But I am going to put Joseph Billiter into the class above that. He is certainly one of the Intellectuals. I have more than one reason for coming to this decision.

Joseph Billiter was a student at one time at a public school. He was intended by his parents for one of the professions, but his whole inclinations were in the direction of engineering and mechanics. He went to one of the big universities, took honours in his examinations, and then came to London to seek a career. He became a teacher in a school demonstrating the sciences. At one of his lectures he stated that it was possible to defy any apparatus that civilisation had ever erected, or could erect, to protect itself against criminals.

That lecture was widely quoted and commented upon. The result was that one of the biggest firms of safe-makers in the country offered to stake a certain sum of money that it was impossible to enter one of their safes within a given space of time. Frankly, I believe the offer was made in order to calm the unrest that had been caused in financial circles by Billiter's declaration. It was felt that his remarks might tempt the criminal fraternity to increase their activities, and, in any case, it was stated over more than one conference-table that Billiter had been most indiscreet in telling openly what had been feared privately. Really the blame, perhaps, ought to have been put on the newspapers who gave prominence to his challenge; but these things are so complicated, and their threads run under and about so many interests, that it is difficult to trace blame, or to define what a man may or may not declare.

Briefly, then, it was admitted in inner circles that if what Joseph Billiter had said was true, it would be a bad thing for the safe-making industry; and, on the other hand, the safe-makers would not sit down to such a challenge, which meant loss of business and lack of faith in their wares. You observe how commerce is delicately balanced, and how even a lecture may cause a flutter in finance! At this stage the newspaper which had given most prominence to the lecture conceived the idea of staging a test. It was a great idea that came to the news editor of the journal in question. He was not a rich man.

The safe-makers were approached. Joseph Billiter was approached. The test was arranged, but there was one condition imposed by all the clients of the safe-makers. These clients included firms on the Stock Exchange, jewellers in the West End, even banks in the city. They combined in protesting against the test unless it was made in secret. After many discussions this was agreed to. And all the readers of the newspaper ever heard of the affair, in spite of their optimism and their hope of seeing photographs of the scientist at work as a burglar, was a small paragraph which stated that the test had taken place and that its results were "satisfactory."

The truth was that its results were satisfactory to only one of the parties. That one was Joseph Billiter. He had cut through the strongest safe made as if it were cheese.

How had he done this? you may ask. Simply enough. It is a scientific fact that any safe made by heat can be destroyed by a greater heat. And after he had bored his way into that safe he gave the small company another lecture, in which he made one admission. It was to the effect that the only place that was burglar-proof was a specially built bank vault, and then it beat the average burglar because it had several doors and an outside gate, and to get through these required time. In reality, it was time that beat the criminal, not the actual vault itself.

Now, the safe-breaker is certainly the most efficient of all criminals. One cannot be a safe-breaker unless one possesses patience, ingenuity, knowledge. Billiter demonstrated several methods. He used a powerful electric drill, operating it by tapping the cable in the building and showing how a modern burglar could thus add insult to injury if he knew his business. Then he used an oxy-acetylene burner. These burners give an intensity of heat of 3,000 degrees Centigrade—sufficient to cut through the hardest steel as if it were butter. The drawback to this method is the transportation of the oxygen and acetylene cylinders needed.

There was, again, the dynamite and nitro-glycerine method which he showed, and he gave the spectators much information that was new even to the police, representatives of whom were also present. He showed how, by boiling several sticks of dynamite for a certain time, the "grease," as it is called in the profession, is prepared. This "grease" is actually the stuff used so that there will not be too much noise. It can be carried to the scene of operation in a bottle, and, after a hole is drilled in the safe, it is filled with this "grease," covered with soap, and a fuse is inserted.

Joseph Billiter's demonstrations were very conclusive, and proved what the police have known for many years, namely, that the safe-breaker is the very top-notch man of crime. But success went to his head. He was still young, and he was very conceited, while he was very able. We do not know exactly what incident proved the downfall of Billiter. I fancy it was a woman, or women. It may have been wine, but that was not his failing originally. I seem to remember that he got tied up with a fast set up West, a set that frequented night-clubs and cabaret dancers' haunts. At any rate, he was discharged from his post. He did not get another.

For a time he disappeared from this country. It was said that he went to America; but one thing is certain; when he was next heard of he had turned crook. It is more than likely that he adopted this profession when he was abroad, for he felt very bitter at his discharge, and constantly declared that if Society would not give him the opportunity to live he would have his revenge—a sort of Bolshevik theory of injustice and injury turned to rebellion.

There were several safes burgled in and around London that caused the police to suspect a master craftsman such as he could be. He was shadowed, watched, suspected, but he was never caught red-handed. He always had an alibi, always a perfect defence. But everything pointed to suspicion of him. He married a girl who lived with crooks long before he became a criminal—that is, lived among them and knew their ways and their works. She was one of his assets.

Carney, the detective whose duty it was to investigate these burglaries, was convinced that they were the work of Billiter and no other. This belief almost became an obsession. He tried time after time to catch Billiter. He had him questioned; he questioned the people who supported his alibis; he kept on his trail; but he was always defeated. Billiter never seemed to make a mistake.

One evening Billiter went out on what he anticipated would be one of his best raids. It was a jeweller's shop within a hundred yards of Charing Cross. To see how he worked, let us observe him coming up from the cellar where the safe of his firm was kept.

The job had been done, and Joseph Billiter crept up the stone steps. The goods he had stolen were in his pockets and in the special belt strapped round his waist. He had placed over a hundred gold watches in this belt, in little compartments, every one worth a considerable sum, for he never took cheap goods. In his pockets were pearls, pendants, rings, brooches, necklaces. Taking him as he stood he was, at that moment, worth a few thousands of pounds sterling.

He closed the trap-door gently, and, stooping low, crossed the shop floor and made his way upstairs to the next storey. All was dark here. The single light which cast a dim glow through the shop on the ground floor had been his one danger, for from the street it was just possible that an inquiring policeman might peer through the slit in the iron shutter at exactly the moment Joseph was to be seen. Yet, even then, he would not have identified Billiter; but he would have raised an alarm. This passage from the cellar trap-door to the stairs leading aloft was the one risk Billiter faced.

As will be understood, the opening of the safe was not, to such an expert craftsman as himself, a real risk. He had made no noise, and he wore rubber gloves, which were thin and did not hamper his fingers as ordinary gloves might. There was also another advantage of rubber gloves. Some of the owners of safes had lately taken to leaving live electric wires in positions so that a burglar might be tempted to grasp them, and get shocks that would throw him into a state of panic. It would not, of course, kill him; but to a man like Billiter all these things were child's play. He knew how to evade such traps as well as the best.

Having negotiated the space between the cellar and the staircase, Billiter had still much farther to go. He never rushed. Standing in the darkness that enveloped the upper showroom and the offices of the firm, he listened intently. From the Strand came the distinct hum of taxicabs and the occasional scream of their hooters. The buses were thundering past. In a short time the streets would be crammed with the crowds coming from the theatres, and, by joining these crowds, Billiter had planned to make his escape without observation. For the present he was not merely listening to the traffic. He was anxious to hear if the policeman on the beat had seen him as he crossed the ground floor downstairs.

He thought he had heard a footstep under the back window. He tiptoed over to the window-sill and peered down obliquely. Yes, there was someone underneath. Had the policeman been watching? He prepared for flight.

Billiter was not afraid that he had been recognised, for he still wore the mask he had donned when he entered the premises. Nor was he afraid of being caught. His entrance had been by a way that was anything but direct. An ordinary burglar would have come into the shop by the back door, or by the side window. A very daring one might have bored his way through the wall from the premises next door, which were under repair at the time. But Joseph Billiter was not an ordinary burglar, even if he was a daring one. He had come to the store by a circuitous route, and he was making his exit the same way—a route that proved his superiority over usual methods.

It was because he had entered in this round-about fashion that he did not fear capture. A policeman, seeing an intruder, would go to the back door; he would call a colleague or two, and they would block likely exits before they entered to search. But by that time Billiter would be gone, without leaving a single clue for them to follow.

He moved back from the window and noiselessly opened a door that led to the top floor. He closed the door after him, locking it with one of his skeleton keys. He went up the narrow staircase without a sound. He was now in the workshop of the store, a small apartment in which were several benches, polishing wheels, and racks littered with the repair jobs of the firm. This room was really an attic, with one dormer window leading to the tiles. Billiter had left the dormer window open when he entered. He now made his exit by it, and pulled it down slowly as he lay with his feet braced against the coping-stone.

He crawled for some distance along the coping on his hands and knees until he reached a flat roof, in the middle of which a square glass studio was built. He was now two doors away from the jewellery shop. Once more his long skeleton key went to work in the lock of the door. He slipped into the studio, once more locking the door behind him.

He knew quite well where he was; he had studied every yard of the way he had travelled. He was just about to leave the studio by going downstairs when he stopped and drew back. Someone was coming up.

He retreated behind a large piece of furniture and pulled a small revolver from his pocket. He had never used his gun on any of his burglarious expeditions, but he always carried it, nevertheless. He did not want to kill; but a gun was always handy to intimidate, to menace, to scare. He told himself that all he needed to do was to put the fear of death into whomsoever was coming up to the room, manœuvre towards the door, and dash out, locking it from the outside. It was a simple enough plan; such a one had served him previously. As he crouched behind the furniture the opposite door of the studio opened, there was a faint "click," and the room was flooded with light.

"Put out that light!"

Billiter's order whipped across the apartment like the crack of a whip. By the door stood a man in his shirt-sleeves, his hands wet, as if he had been washing them. Billiter slid from behind the piece of furniture.

He knew the room quite well. He saw around the shelves were several bottles and jars; pictures were hung on the walls, large and small photographs. From the centre of the ceiling a large, powerful arc lamp was suspended, but this was not the light that was illuminating the studio. The arc lamp was controlled by a hanging pear-switch, the other by a switch on the wall next the door.

The man in the shirt-sleeves was standing on the threshold, startled and hesitating. The sight of a masked burglar had, for the moment, unnerved him.

"Put out that light!"

This time Billiter's revolver was raised. The man obeyed instinctively, without a word; and as the light was extinguished another bored a small circle through the darkness and fell on the figure by the door. This second light came from an electric torch which Billiter held in his left hand.

"What are you doing here?" demanded the man at the door. "This studio——"

"Cut that out! Step over here and I won't harm you!"

Billiter jerked his torch in the direction he wished the man to walk; but just then the other seemed to overcome his surprise and fright. He stooped, and raised the first thing that came to his hand and threw it with all his force at the gleaming torch. What he threw was inoffensive enough. It was a cushion taken from a chair near the door; but it caught Billiter full in the face, making him drop his torch and bringing an oath to his lips.

"Don't move!" he cried swiftly. "If you make a step I'll shoot!"

The warning halted the man by the door. He did not see, in the gloom, that his missile had torn the mask from Billiter's face just then; but he saw it a moment later, when Billiter stooped to regain his torch, the light of which, as he lifted it, suddenly flashed across his features.

"Stand away from that door!" roared Billiter harshly.

As he spoke he threw the torchlight full on the man once more, jerking it commandingly. He did not want to shoot, angry though he was. He knew the consequences of shooting, and he shrank from murder; besides, the noise of the shot might disturb others. Billiter was playing his game of bluff, of menace, confidently. He saw, by the changing expression on the man's face, that his mind was a prey to swift and changing emotions and ideas. But Billiter held the winning hand. If it came to a fight, he could always shoot; but he would shoot only to frighten.

The man moved hesitatingly from the doorway. Billiter took a step towards it. It was like a game of draughts, each man taking a step, cat-like, watching his opponent, the one gliding towards the interior of the apartment, the other towards the exit.

Suddenly the man seemed to lose his nerve, and ran forward to hide behind the heavy piece of furniture which was placed, easel-like, under the hanging arc lamp, and was covered by a dust sheet. Billiter knew then that he had won. The man was scared stiff. But a scared man may be dangerous, and as Billiter threw his torchlight on the spot he saw the man's hand go up as if to reach the pear-switch. Billiter aimed and fired at the hand.

There was a smash of glass, a cry as one of the bottles on a distant shelf crashed down, and then a blinding flash filled the room. The glare made Billiter's eyes sting. He could no longer see things, but he dashed for the door, switching out his torch. He reached the door and closed it at his heels, and turned the key in the lock. Then he stood blinking in the darkness of the landing.

"Some of his blinking chemicals," he muttered. "I hit his hand too. That will be a lesson to him not to try tricks. One thing, he never saw me properly, so he can't identify me."

He went down the stairs, confident still, his eyes a little misty, but they soon cleared and he was able to see normally. He no longer feared pursuit, since he had locked the door behind him. He reached the ground floor, put his mask in his pocket, and went out.

A few minutes later he was in the Strand, one of the crowd that was moving along. He was safe. All he had to do now was to present an alibi with which to face the police.

He knew they would make inquiries. He knew Carney would come to see him, as he always came. The same old things would be said, the same old questions asked and answered. He had begun to laugh at the suspicions the police had of him. He had grown used to being suspected. But suspicion is one thing and evidence is another. He never gave them evidence.

In this case he had worked with his usual caution and luck. He reflected, as he walked along, that he had just fired the shot in time. The intruder had hoped to throw his big light on him; perhaps he had intended to attack as soon as the studio was lit up. The shot had prevented this, as it had also prevented any chance of his own identity being discovered.

It had taken Billiter some time to work out this burglary. First he had observed the position of the store. He had never dreamed of entering it by its own doorways. He had observed the premises on either side. One was a small teashop of the kind that provides light suppers and quick lunches. It remained open until after the theatres closed, so that entrance could not possibly be made that way.

Billiter found his means on the other side of the store. Next door to the jeweller's was a sweet-shop, with offices above. Next the sweet-shop was an outfitter's, occupying two floors. The third floor was used as a photographic studio—one of the kind where passport portraits are turned out in a hurry. Because this studio was erected on a flat roof Billiter chose it as his line of advance.

He had visited the place to get information, as he pretended, about prices; but as he held the assistant in conversation his eyes were on the flat roof beyond the glass studio. He found out when the premises closed at night. Then he made his raid.

The appearance of the photographer just when Billiter was making his escape was but one of the incidents that could not have been foreseen, a risk that had always to be taken; and it was because he was aware of such unexpected possibilities that Billiter carried his revolver. Without it he would have no advantage over an antagonist—a fatal condition for one whose great problem was always escape.

Billiter did not loiter in the Strand. He mounted a bus at Aldwych and rode on the top eastwards. Just beyond the limits of the City proper he got off, and hurried to the destination where he desired to dispose of his loot—the house of a receiver of stolen property. A price was offered and accepted, and Billiter received the hard cash he wanted. He knew that in a few hours the jewellery would be dissected, the gold would be in the melting-pot, and all traces would have vanished.

Having thus dealt with the proceeds of the robbery, the next step was to provide an alibi with which to face the police, and especially Carney, the man-hunter whom Billiter hated (and perhaps feared a little too) more than any other. You see, Carney, if not brilliant, was dogged. He had looked up Billiter's career, and knew his descent, step by step. That descent was curious, for not only had Billiter adopted the manner of criminals; he had adopted the speech of the ordinary East End crook, whose mentality he despised and whose habits he loathed. Indeed, it appeared that he was not only at war with Society, but was also annoyed at his own failings and weaknesses.

In the present instance he had taken Carney into his calculations as usual, and had made provision for the detective's moves. He found everything set as he anticipated when he reached home, which he entered just before midnight. His wife was preparing a late supper, and in the mean sitting-room were several acquaintances. They greeted his arrival with eagerness.

"Everything all right?" asked his wife, a heavy-featured woman who had once been pretty.

"Yes. What was the show like?"

"Fair. We're newly home. Supper's ready."

As they ate the meal, Billiter handed money to each. It was their pay, for they worked to his plans, ready to swear an alibi when asked.

When his guests had gone, Billiter hid his tools and most of the money under the floorboards. His wife watched him curiously.

"Sure everything's right, Joe?"

"What's frightening you?"

"Carney. The last time he was here he said he'd get you. He said you'd make a mistake some time."

"Aw, Carney couldn't get me, nor anybody else, with the defence I've raised. Ain't we able to put forward plenty of witnesses? He wasn't on duty last night. I know his hours. Give me that half-ticket of the show."

She handed over the torn portion of the entrance ticket to the theatre, which she had retained. He put it into his waistcoat pocket.

"Ain't that proof?" he grinned. "Carney can't get over that. I'm going to bed. If he comes at all, he won't come before morning."

His knowledge of police routine was sound; they had just finished breakfast, and Billiter was reading a newspaper, when a knock sounded on the door. Joseph glanced at his wife knowingly.

"Let him in. I'll bet it's Carney."

It was Carney, and with him was another man in plain clothes. They entered quietly, and Carney sat down on a chair facing Billiter.

"There was a burglary in the Strand last night," he announced quietly.

"I was just beginning to read about it in the paper," answered Billiter, glowering. "Go on, get the questions over. I know you've come to try to pin it on me."

"It looks like your work, Billiter."

"Aw, you've said that before about other things. It makes me tired. I suppose the cop on the beat saw a man, and you jumped to it that it was me, same as you have done before? And then I've to show you that it couldn't have been me. You've got a down on me, Carney, that's what."

"The burglar last night got away with a lot of stuff," went on Carney, taking no notice of the indignation of Billiter. "He entered a jewellery store by crawling along the roof. As for the policeman on the beat, he didn't see anybody. But the burglar got clear away after shooting at a man who tried to stop him."

"Humph!"

Billiter was as cool as usual. He suppressed a smile. He had asked the question about the policeman on the beat as a feeler; he wanted to make sure if he had really been seen, or if he himself had guessed right in regard to the figure under the window in the yard. The answer relieved him immensely. He now knew that the figure under the window must have been that of the worker coming up to the studio.

He folded the newspaper on his knees and faced Carney.

"Well? Spit it out. You've been after me long enough."

"I've always hoped to get you—you and your friends."

"Keep on hoping, then."

It was a jeer, but they knew each other well enough to dispense with formalities. The duel had begun again.

Carney was a big man, heavy and rotund—a contrast to Billiter, who was wiry and agile. The detective seemed too deliberate for Billiter. He was on edge to get Carney away; he wanted to hurry the examination.

"Have you come to prove that I did it?" he demanded.

"Can you prove that you didn't?"

"You bet. I'll give you an alibi that'll satisfy any magistrate."

"In that case you will be able to tell me where you were between the hours of nine and eleven last evening. I'd like a statement."

He made a motion to the plain-clothes man beside him, and the latter prepared to write in his note-book. Billiter felt amused. He had seen the same performance on previous occasions. It was always the same—questions and answers, then inquiries to prove the statements, and after that nothing happened. This time Billiter did not wait for the questions. He brought the torn theatre ticket from his waistcoat pocket and threw it on the table.

"That'll tell you where I was."

Carney looked at the ticket, examining it thoughtfully.

"You were at this theatre?"

"That's what I'm telling you. Some friends were with me. I'll give you their names, if you like."

"We'll take them down right away."

The plain-clothes man wrote the names and addresses down as Billiter gave them. The latter's wife stood behind the writer, biting her lip as she watched his pencil glide across the paper. Carney looked up and caught her eye.

"Were you with your husband at the theatre?" he asked.

"Yes," she snapped.

Carney rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then turned to his colleague.

"Better go along to these people right away and take their statements and signatures. Mrs. Billiter will go with you to direct you. And notify them to come to the station before midday."

"Going to question them there?" snarled Billiter bitterly. "Maybe you'll want their finger-prints too. You officials give me a pain."

He pulled out his pipe and began to fill it from a tobacco-jar held between his knees. His wife and the plain-clothes officer departed as he was striking a match. The first puff of smoke had just escaped Billiter's lips when Carney rose to his feet.

"And now," he said, "I think you'd better be coming along."

"Where to?"

"The station."

"Same old routine, Carney. I know all about it. I go there, and you write out a long rigmarole, and I sign. And then I walk out until the next time you get a hunch——"

"Not this time, Billiter. You won't walk out this time."

Billiter threw his match down with a gesture of protest.

"You can't detain me," he cried. "You haven't got a charge, and I've given you a perfect alibi."

"The alibi doesn't work on this occasion, Billiter. It is too perfect. Listen to me. The photographer's assistant who came back to the studio to develop some prints has given us a statement. The burglar tried to keep the studio in darkness so as to escape, but as he was making for the door he passed the screen usually used for portraits, and the assistant reached for the hanging switch that controls the camera."

"Well?" cried Billiter.

"The result was that a flashlight picture of the room was taken, and we have a portrait of the burglar with his mask down about his neck. Here it is."

He threw on the table a large print, in which Joseph Billiter was shown in the very act of firing his revolver.

"As for the alibi your friends helped you to make up," went on Carney, "I expected that defence, as usual, from you, but I'll rope them in on a charge of making false declarations. Now will you come quietly?"

"I'll come," said Billiter hoarsely. "You've got me at last, Carney."

And Carney marched him off.

The Governor paused, and glanced at his visitor.

"I daresay," he remarked, "you have noticed how events of importance sometimes have a way of treading on each other's heels, so to speak. It was while he was making arrangements at the police station for the disposal of Joseph Billiter that Carney came into touch with the last case that interested the celebrated Dr. Caffyn, criminologist and pathologist. It was he who had so often advanced his theory of a cure for murder——"

"A cure?" interrupted the visitor.

"That is what Dr. Caffyn called it. A case had just cropped up that enabled him to apply his tests finally in front of Carney, who, as you know, was opposed to theories. It was a curious case, and baffled investigators greatly."

"Did Dr. Caffyn find a cure?" asked the visitor scornfully.

"The best way to answer that question is to show you how Dr. Caffyn arrived at the answer; and this I intend to do right away."