CHAPTER III

_The Waiter States His First Case_

"I see," said the waiter as he glanced at the clouded features of the judge, "that you grudge me the first point. If you have any objection to my claim, please state it at once, for it is now my turn to present a case."

"I cannot admit that murder, even for a religious object, ought to go unpunished," replied the judge.

"Who said murder ought to go unscathed? We were not discussing that at all. We were discussing the right of your penal code to take life. If you still cling to Biblical authority for taking life, why do you not believe in the blood atonement for sins and all the rites of altar sacrifice? You have the precedent of Isaac and his son."

"That is carrying things to the extreme," cried the judge, irritably. "The teachings of the New Testament are what guide us----"

"Why are you so illogical as to confound the two parts of the Bible? You will find no authority in the New Testament for taking life. The reverse is the case. I could quote many texts in this connection, but I will not weary you. I have already said that Western civilization does not understand Christianity. If it does, then it is guilty of the most colossal hypocrisy man can imagine. But we stray from the issue. Have you any other objection to make?"

The judge wrinkled his face and pondered for a short time, his eyes roving thoughtfully over the still forms of his fellow members.

"Supposing I concede you Ammar Baddan," he said, "what is your next case? I shall be glad to hear it. For I am sure that Baddan's case is exceptional in its elements and the same conditions cannot apply to any other in my recollection. I hope you will not inflict on me another ethical or religious problem."

"I can assure you on that at once," smiled the waiter. "As a matter of fact, I intend to quote all my cases from the minute-book now before you."

"Really! That gives me confidence. I flatter myself that I know them and in no other does the law, as I interpret it, err and inflict what the majority of people would, by any stretch of imagination, call an injustice."

"You certainly flatter yourself," retorted the waiter, "as I shall now do my best to prove."

The waiter toyed for a moment with the glass from which the secretary had drunk and a queer smile played round his mouth. The judge, watching him narrowly, and with a slightly nervous feeling, observed that the man's fingers were of an extraordinary length, the whole hand, indeed, though fine, suggested tremendous strength. Quite unconsciously the judge's eyes dropped to his own hand. He too had long, carefully manicured fingers, but while they narrowed toward the tips, just like those of the waiter, they did not give the same expression of power. Raising his eyes to the face of the waiter, the judge was aware that the latter was gazing fixedly at him. The judge coughed, slipped a lozenge into his mouth, and gave one of his usual, hardly perceptible nods, signifying that he was ready to listen.

"My lord," immediately began the waiter, "there are one or two observations I desire to make which, though they may appear irrelevant, have nevertheless a bearing on the case which I intend to present before you. In this instance I must accept a rather peculiar standpoint, which, when I have finished, you will no doubt appreciate.

"May I deal with your statement that in no other case in your knowledge does the law inflict an injustice? Does it not seem terrible to think that in the case of capital punishment there can never be any recompense by the law or the state? If a miscarriage takes place there can be no apology, no admission of error, no restitution. Your law, which hangs a man by the neck until he is dead, has the impudence and the horribly blasphemous offensiveness to provide him with a parson whose spirit--if he is a decent man--revolts at the thought of trying to smuggle a criminal out of the hands of the devil and up the back stairs to heaven at express speed; and, while it feigns, with its tongue in its cheek, an anxiety for his soul, yet regards his body as so polluted that it buries him in a limed coffin that he may rot rapidly.

"Fresh evidence may come before the authorities who, even if they have secret regrets, can recall nothing of the judgment that is irrevocable. The stain of the scaffold is on his name and on his friends' names forever."

"The law takes every possible care to collect its evidence and you are making reckless statements," interrupted the judge; but the waiter raised his hand impressively.

"All these plausible anodynes to soothe any opposition," continued the waiter, "have been heard previously. They are platitudes. Let us come to facts. There is the frightful injustice of the sentence of Oscar Slater for the murder of an old woman in Glasgow. He was found guilty, sentenced to be hanged, then reprieved and spent more than eighteen years in prison at Peterhead before his innocence was established. His case would never have received a second consideration had it not been for the unfaltering pressure brought to bear on the authorities by Sir A. Conan Doyle and others.

"There was the classic case of the two men in the Midlands who went through a similar ghastly trial for alleged murder and were sentenced similarly, were reprieved similarly, and then were set free because they were innocent.

"Allow me to put a point that has never been perceived by those who agree with the judgment of death. Does not this final sentence, which can never be remitted, give an opportunity to a clever criminal to use it to his own ends?"

The question was put so direct that the judge saw he was expected to reply.

"I cannot conceive," he remarked, sarcastically, "any circumstances where a criminal could benefit as you hint. Criminals do not administer the law."

The waiter pondered this for a moment. At last he drew the minute-book toward him and turned over the pages until he came to one that interested him. He began to relate his first case in support of his position:

THE WORST THE LAW CAN DO

I think [he said] that it was George Bernard Shaw who made the wise observation that the criminal feels a right to do his worst to society to prevent society from doing its worst to him. Every criminal, certainly, tries to make his crimes perfect and detection-proof. This was the objective of John Davis when he set out to kill Lorry Black. You may remember the trial and sentence of death that you passed on John Davis? He was charged with murdering Lorry Black in a rowboat off Hastings and with throwing his body into the sea.

Now a considerable time after the police started investigating the crime the body of Black was washed up by the ocean, and then it was in an advanced state of decomposition. A ring on a finger, a piece of clothing, and one or two minor possessions identified the body.

The police were commended at the trial for the pains they had taken, during the time that Davis was held in prison, to complete their evidence. Their methods were a triumph for the prosecution and a warning to all who might have thoughts of crime.

John Davis, it was shown by the prosecuting counsel, had hoped to work out his murder so that he would have a perfect alibi. He had been on the trail of Lorry Black for some weeks, waiting, watching, patient, but relentless. Both he and Black had been in prison previously. They knew each other and hated each other genuinely.

Davis had spent practically all his money in trailing Black, but he was aware that Black had money enough to recompense him if he could lay his hands on it. But even if he never touched a penny of that money, he had determined to get Black. That was the driving force that dominated Davis--to get Black. He had come down from London to get him.

He saw Black leave the hotel on the front and go down to the slip near the pier, hire a boat, and row out beyond the pier. It was evening. The lights were beginning to twinkle on the promenade. The pier concert hall was being lit up. In another half-hour the beach would be dark.

Davis strolled down toward the slip, whistling as he went. The boatman inquired if he wanted a boat. Yes, Davis wanted a boat, but he knew better than hire one from that particular slipway. He walked on slowly, his gaze on the boat which Black was rowing far out beyond the lighted pier. Black had gone fishing. Davis laughed to himself. His alibi was perfect. Black had given him the chance that would never come again.

Half a mile farther along the beach there was another slipway. Here Davis hired a boat, asking for a fishing-line also. He was given two lines and was assured that the fish were biting well. As he rowed off the boatman expressed the hope that he would have a good catch. A good catch! That was just what Davis was going to have. Black was the catch.

Davis rowed out to sea with even strokes. He was not in any hurry to let Black see him. It would be delicious, he thought, to observe Black's face when he came up to him in the darkness.

It was a peaceful evening, the water was fairly calm. A steady current was swinging up the coast. In the middle of the Channel a liner was moving up to London, inward bound from a foreign land. Davis reflected that he might be aboard her when she sailed down again. He saw Black's boat dimly, moving out beyond the few fishers who kept near the pier.

The twilight faded, the liner was lost in the gathering night. Davis bent to his oars. Now was the time to act.

Black's boat was moored to a buoy, and he was getting his line ready for casting when Davis pulled alongside in the darkness. Black turned round at the sound of the oars. When he saw Davis he jerked out a cry of alarm.

"You see I've come, Lorry," said Davis with a laugh. "Keep quiet and put your hands on your knees so I can see 'em. I have a gun."

Black obeyed. He seemed to slump on the seat, all his life gone out of him.

"I saw you passing the hotel today," he gasped. "Is it money you want?"

"I came last evening," replied Davis. "They told me at your rooms in London what hotel you were staying at. I coaxed it out of them. I would have found out in any case, somehow. Have I come for money? I have come for more than money. I have come for you."

"For me?"

"Yes, for you, you rat! You know I have been on your trail ever since we came out of prison."

"I have been aware----"

"Of course you have been aware. You have tried to dodge me at every turn. When I came to see you, you always pretended you were out. But I kept after you. And you have given me a perfect alibi for what I'm going to do."

"A perfect alibi? I don't understand."

"You will very soon. I made my plans in prison. I was thinking about you when I was making the mail-bags during the daytime, and I was thinking about you when I lay on my plank at nighttime. And now I've got you. You came out to fish tonight. So did I. Good fishing, Lorry!"

Black edged backward as Davis climbed into his boat; but Davis thrust his revolver out until it almost touched Black.

"If you yell," he said, "I'll shoot."

It was a weird situation. The lights on the promenade were twinkling. The hotels were brilliantly lit. From the pier came the harmony of the band playing one of the latest dances. A dying fish flapped feebly on the floor boards of the boat.

"John," said Black, suddenly, "it won't do you any good to hurt me. I warn you."

Davis grinned.

"On the contrary," he said, "it will do me a lot of good. You haven't had time to squeal to the cops, and it wouldn't have mattered if you had. I don't mind the cops. I can put dust in their eyes."

"If it is money you want," said Black, "I can give you some. In my pocketbook you will find twenty ten-pound notes."

He handed it over and Davis took it, crackling the fringes of the notes with his thumb before he put it into his own pocket.

"Have you any more at your hotel?" he asked.

"No," answered Davis. "I drew these from the bank near the hotel."

"You won't draw any more," said Davis. "Never."

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to kill you."

The decision was followed by a terrible silence. Black did not cry out, he did not exclaim, he did not plead for mercy. Davis went on.

"You know why I am going to do it. You turned the cops on to me after you were pinched for our last robbery----"

"You're wrong," said Black, steadily. "I did not turn the cops on to you. They told you that so you would give yourself away, and you gave yourself away. It was your own admission that brought you into the dock beside me----"

But Davis would not listen. He believed that Black was trying to get out of the corner. And yet it was true what Black had said. The two of them had been burglars in company. They had done jobs together. Black usually took most of the risk. He was strong, agile, with a pair of hands that could pick up trinkets as swiftly and cleanly as he could wield a heavy hammer. Davis was a different sort. He was possessed of a fierce temper. He had no imagination. In this case he had given himself away in face of a police trick. He had been sent to prison with Black, and he had sworn to kill Black.

This enmity existed in prison. Twice Davis had been disciplined for attacking Black during exercise. The result was that he received a longer sentence. And now that he was out of jail he was carrying out his plan to revenge himself on his one-time companion.

It was useless for Black to argue. He was quite aware of the temper that flared behind the face of Davis--an ungovernable temper that refused to listen to reason and declined to accept the truth. But Black did not shrink as Davis expected he would. He merely laid his hand on the gunwale of the boat, and the act made Davis strike.

He had intended to shoot Black, but the movement of the latter made him strike instead. He struck with the butt of the gun, and the blow fell slantingly on the head of Black. He crumpled up and slid over the side of the boat, which tilted dangerously. Davis seized the form of Black and pushed it completely over.

He saw Black's form slide into the depths. He heard no cry. There was no struggle at all. Black went down like a stone. Davis sat down in the boat, watching. But Black did not cry out, if he ever came to the surface. The sea rippled and lapped against the boat. All was still.

It was a little while before Davis undid the mooring rope and completed the scheme he had planned. He deliberately capsized Black's boat and let the oars drift away, after throwing the single fish into his own craft. Then he rowed ashore.

He congratulated himself on getting rid of Black so easily. After all, a blow was safer than a shot, which might be heard. And he had the money. That came handy to him.

The band was still playing on the pier when he began to row ashore. He hummed the tune to himself, keeping time to the music, and watched the dancers as they swung around, dark silhouettes against the glass-sided pavilion.

Just before he reached the slipway he threw over most of the bait with which he had been supplied, and dipped the line into the sea. Thus the boatman would know that he had been fishing. He paid for the boat, gave the single fish to the boatman as a present, and went up to the promenade.

He went to the boarding-house where he was lodging. It was then a quarter to ten o'clock.

But he did not enter by the front door. He went round to the back of the tall house, turned down a side lane, scrambled over the wall, and ran along the garden until he reached an outhouse. Above the outhouse was a lighted window, the blind of which was down. He hauled himself to the roof of the outhouse and crawled up the tiles. The window of the lighted room was open at the bottom. He pulled back the blind and slipped inside. Across the floor he walked quickly. The key was in the door lock. He unlocked the door, then returned and threw himself into a big armchair.

He unlaced his boots and pulled on a pair of slippers and lay back in the chair, pretending that he was asleep. He was snoring when a knock came to the door. He did not answer. The door opened, and then he appeared to awake.

"Aren't you coming down for supper, sir?" asked the maid who had put her head round the door. "The gong went some time ago."

Davis jumped to his feet, yawned, and stretched his arms.

"Supper, hey? I've been asleep all evening. Have you been up before?"

"No, sir."

"Anybody called for me?"

"No, sir, nobody called."

"Good. Thanks for calling me."

He went down to the shabby dining-room, stifling yawns and blinking ostentatiously. During the meal he told his neighbors that he had been sleeping in his room. They explained it by saying that everybody slept for the first few days. It was the strong air that did it.

That night Davis told the boarding-house keeper that he was leaving next day. He handed the proprietor one of the ten-pound notes he had taken from Black and said he would get his change in the morning, as the proprietor had not the change on hand.

Davis slept very well that night. He went down to breakfast and then packed his bag. He was busy at this when the door opened. A man stepped inside.

"You Mr. John Davis?" he asked.

"I am."

"The ex-convict?"

"Aw, you're a cop, I suppose. Well, you needn't try to pin anything on me. I'm going back to London now----"

"I'm a detective," said the man, holding out a piece of paper toward Davis. "How did you come into possession of this ten-pound note?"

Davis stared at the note. Before he knew what was happening a pair of handcuffs were on his wrists.

"What's this for?" he demanded, angrily.

"It's this way, Davis," said the detective. "We had a letter from Lorry Black a few days ago. He wrote that he expected you would be after him and that you would probably demand money from him. If you tendered any ten-pound notes anywhere, or if they were found in your possession, we had evidence enough to arrest you. These notes were supplied to Black by Scotland Yard with instructions to carry them in his pocketbook. They are faked notes and the banks knew about them and had their numbers. This note was handed over a bank counter half an hour ago by the proprietor of this house. So I'm taking you on that charge in the meantime until we have traced Lorry Black."

Of course, they did not trace Lorry Black so easily, for he had been sent overboard in deep water; but some weeks afterward, when Davis was still being held on suspicion, a body was washed up some distance down the coast and there was little difficulty, as has been mentioned, in identifying it as being all that remained of Black.

The rest was swift work on the part of the police. Davis was charged with murder, his movements that evening were all tabulated and checked up, and the prosecuting counsel told in detail all that I have related. Thus John Davis went to the scaffold and was hanged....

At this point the waiter stopped and stroked his chin, while the judge bent forward.

"I congratulate you on the way you have marshalled your facts," he said, smilingly. "But what do you seek to prove by telling me all I already know? It was I who passed the death sentence on John Davis, and since he murdered his confederate, Lorry Black----"

"That is just the point. He did not murder Lorry Black."

"Indeed!" The word was spoken in an incredulous tone.

"No, he did not murder Lorry Black. You see, Lorry Black was well aware that Davis would be after him. He knew that Davis would try to kill him. He set the stage for Davis that evening. He saw Davis waiting for him and he took the boat out to fish, knowing that Davis would not miss such a good opportunity. He expected Davis to follow. He gave him the money willingly and gladly. He set his net wider than Davis set _his_ net. It is true that Davis hit him on the head, but Black was already halfway over the side of the boat. He was a good swimmer. He managed to get ashore. He wanted Davis to hang. He provided the body that was identified as his own."

The judge sat up stiff and straight.

"It is impossible," he said, sternly.

"But it is true," went on the waiter. "He got the body---- But why weary you with what is another long story? He saw to it that the body would be identified as his, and he committed it to the sea. He did that rather thoroughly. He anchored the body with certain anchorage that would decay by the action of the water in a given time. The tides would do the rest. Then he went into retirement. He took another name and waited. He was one of those who stood at Wandsworth prison gates and read the notices that John Davis had been well and truly hanged."

The waiter ceased, and the judge, who had been listening intently, seemed to slump into his chair. His massive face was more wrinkled than ever, and there was a shade of baffled weariness about his eyes.

"I sentenced John Davis," he murmured. "The evidence was clear. The jury were satisfied."

He seemed to Be talking to himself.

"Lorry Black was in the gallery of your court and heard your summing up," said the waiter. "He also was quite satisfied with your judgment--especially when you put on the black cap--even if he disagreed with the penal code on principle. He proved that the law can be used against itself. It is the principle we are discussing. By the way, Black got a lady friend, whom he had appointed his heir in his will, to lift his insurance money. It came in very good time."

Suddenly the judge straightened.

"If Black is still alive, and if what you say is true----"

"Please do not be alarmed," said the waiter, suavely. "I have the best of reasons for knowing that Black is alive. _I_ am Lorry Black."

He stretched out his hand and took another glass from beside a sleeping member of the Clue Club and placed it next the one he had already claimed.

"Second point to me," he smiled.