Part 16

I knew, from the moment that Bell Corkling was named, that I should have some trouble in getting evidence against them. They had no fixed abode, and generally lodged at a place where dozens besides themselves might as reasonably be suspected of the crime. This beggars’ howf was in the Grassmarket, and its occupants had such a reputation for stealing from one another that I scarcely expected Bell or Pauley to be so foolish as leave their plunder about that place. My opinion to this day is that Benjie _did not_ see the Indian trinket in Bell’s possession, but merely inferred their guilt from circumstances which I shall notice further on. Therefore the task which Benjie conferred on me was much more difficult than I imagined. I had Bell watched for a day by a smart little ragamuffin whom I engaged for the purpose, and then I broke in on them at what I thought was the most favourable moment—about ten o’clock at night. The “kitchen” was full, but Pauley and Bell were in more select and favoured society—the room of the lodging-house keeper, who was helping them to dispose of some bad whisky. Bell looked angry and excited when I appeared and my men closed the door; Pauley looked concerned, and hurriedly said something across the table to Bell in an undertone, when she made a swift motion as if to wipe her mouth with her hand. All that took place while the fat lodging-house keeper was rising, and, in tones of innocent wonder, asking what I sought at such a time.

I had not an answer ready, for I was thinking of Bell’s peculiar action, and watching her closely the while; but at length I said pleasantly to Bell—

“I want to know how old you are, Bell.”

“Then I won’t tell you,” she fiercely answered.

“I didn’t ask you. I mean to find out for myself. You’re such a horse of a woman—I want to see if I can tell by looking at your teeth. Come away, now, like a good soul, open your mouth.”

Pauley turned pale, and Bell closed her lips more rigidly.

“Sha’nt,” she defiantly answered, in a mumble through her teeth.

“Ah, ladies are always shy on that point; I must take you to the Office, and get a crowbar to prize open your jaws,” and I got out my handcuffs to fit one on her, when she suddenly made a desperate gulp, and then turned crimson in the face, and began to wave her arms and kick her legs at a fine rate, gasping, and choking, and sputtering, but failing to get the impediment either up or down her capacious throat. She opened her mouth now without being asked, and the chasm thus displayed was enough to frighten the bravest, but she was so evidently in pain, and urgent in her motions, that I made an attempt to relieve her.

Others tried in turn, but at length we had to send for a doctor, who, with a peculiar instrument—like a long bent pair of forceps—managed to bring out of her throat an Indian gold coin. As soon as I had examined the coin, and made some pleasant remarks thereon, which were very badly received by Bell, I asked for the remainder of the plunder, and not getting it, searched the place thoroughly, when I at last found a small paper parcel tied with a piece of twine, and fastened up inside the chimney with a table fork. In this parcel was most of the plunder, including the old-fashioned watch, which seemed not a bit the worse of its smoking. The landlady was loud in her denunciations of my prisoners, and they were good enough to confirm her protests, by declaring that she knew nothing of the hide. Still all three had to trudge, though the landlady afterwards got off with an admonition. It was the table fork which saved her, for it was proved that she had missed the fork days before, and kicked up a terrible row, accusing one of the lodgers of having stolen that useful article.

The arrest, and the manner in which it had been accomplished, seemed to impress Pauley with a more exalted opinion of my powers. He did not know that it was by a mere chance that I entered at the moment when Bell had the Indian coin in her possession, and seemed to think there was something uncanny about me. That was his first impression. A day or two’s reflection made him veer a little. He had never told the particulars of the robbery to a living being—even Bell had not been so trusted. How then could I have known that he must be the man? That was Pauley’s puzzle, and it led his thoughts insensibly in the direction of Benjie Blunt. He sent for me at last, and asked me point blank if he had been informed on by that worthy. I was a little staggered by the question, and Pauley took me up at once.

“I see it was him that set you on to me and Bell—and there’s nobody else could,” he bitterly continued. “Well, I can be even with him, for I’m not the real man after all. If you’ll undertake to get me off, I’ll put you up to the whole plant.”

I could make no such pledge, but Pauley’s anger was roused, and he had resolved that Benjie should suffer, so he made unconditionally the following statement:—

“That night when the robbery was done I met Benjie in a public-house in the Pleasance. He pretended to be very drunk, but he wasn’t, and I knew it, and wondered what he was after, as I smelt chloroform, and knew he was the only one who could have it about him. He got quarrelsome and broke a glass, and was put out of the place. I didn’t stay long after, as I was curious about him. He went along a street or two pretty drunk like, and then got as sober as a judge, and went out very smart to the cottage at the Meadows. The whole job didn’t last five minutes, and I watched it all a bit off. When he came out again he had a narrow box in his hands, and he went to the dog kennel and pushed the box in below it, and then bolted. I went for the box, and got it, and bolted too, for I was frightened, seeing the servant’s foot in the lobby, and thinking maybe he had given her too strong a dose. I burned the box whenever I got under cover, and hid everything but the money. I heard that Benjie was locked up for being drunk and abusive the same night. He was no more drunk than I am now, but I s’pose he thought he’d be safer in there than out.”

This story was too wonderful for me to credit at a moment’s notice, but I thought there could be no harm in getting hold of Benjie. I had pledged my word to him that he was not to appear in the case as a witness; his appearing as a prisoner was quite outside of the bond.

I went to look for Benjie soon after my interview with Pauley, and chanced to meet him coming up a close in the High Street, when he graciously smiled out, and seized hold of my hand to shake it warmly, while he thanked me most heartily for so neatly securing Pauley and Bell. He seemed to look upon the capture as a personal favour done to himself. He was shortly to change his opinion.

“I’ll go up the close with you,” I quietly remarked, turning and accompanying him as far as the High Street. “There are some points in that affair I’m not quite sure of, and I want you to go with me as far as the Office.”

“All right, but I am not to appear as a witness,” he warningly observed.

“No, no, not as a witness,” I assuringly returned, “and, lest anyone should suspect you of peaching, suppose I put one of these on you and take you along on suspicion?”

He looked at me suspiciously, but recovered and grinned out as I snapped the steel on his wrist—

“It’s a good joke,” he said delightedly.

“I don’t mean it for a joke at all,” I said, becoming serious. “Really and truly I am arresting you on suspicion.”

His whole countenance changed, his jaw fell, and for a moment he stopped walking, and looked as wicked as any human being could look.

“You can’t prove anything against me,” he at length answered, moving along with me in apparent confidence. “I can prove a _nalibi_, as it’s called. I was in Fernie’s public-house in the Pleasance all the afternoon, and was put out there drunk, and lugged into the Office long before the robbery came off. I was drunk, but I knew what I was about, and I know I was never near the Meadows.”

“Done!” I cried. “Oh, you fool! Why did you say so much? You’ve convicted yourself by speaking of an _alibi_. It was the only link awanting in the chain of evidence, for I could not conceive why you should pretend to be drunk and then get back to the High Street and have yourself locked up as drunk and incapable. Thank you, Benjie, for your help in this matter. It was all a clever _alibi_ you were arranging?”

Benjie emitted one oath, and then became silent, conscious, doubtless, of the soundness of my remarks. An hour or two after he had been locked up, I had Peggy Reid brought to see him, when she unhesitatingly identified him as the man who had held the handkerchief to her mouth on the night of the robbery. This drove the last prop out from under Benjie, and he plaintively asked if Pauley was to be accepted as evidence. Being informed that that was a likely contingency, he thereupon stated that he would prefer to plead guilty, in order that Pauley might suffer along with him. His benevolent intention was humoured, and the three went to the Penitentiary together, Benjie getting the lion’s share in the number of years.

JIM HUTSON’S KNIFE.

Jim’s mother touched me on the arm as I ushered him into the Police Court for the first time. I remember it all as well as if it had happened yesterday. She had been loitering about the lobby, tearful and oppressed, but was roused as by an electric shock when “James Hutson!” was shouted out, and echoed through the corridor. She gripped my arm as I was hurrying him in at the door, and the whole arm attached to those rigid fingers shook as with an ague. The tearful eyes brimmed over freely, and the parted lips moved, but for a moment no sound came forth.

“Jim was aye a guid laddie,” she at length chokingly articulated. “He’s been led away; he was never meant for a thief. Save him! make it licht for him, and he’ll never come back here. Oh, Maister M^cGovan, he’s the only ane left me—the only ane oot o’ six.”

I did not hear any more, for I was in a hurry, and the roll that morning rather long, but the appealing face, the tears, and hurriedly breathed outpourings of that poor mother’s heart, followed me right into the court-room. Frantic and voluble appeals under such circumstances are common, but this one was quiet, sudden, and overpowering. I looked at the prisoner for the first time with special interest. He was a young lad of sixteen or so, rather strongly built, and manly-looking, but, of course, hanging his head in shame as they generally do the first time. The case was a very simple one. Jim was an apprentice plumber in a big workshop; quantities of brass-fittings, copper wire, and tin had been missed, and at last I was set to watch the workers. I followed several innocent ones for a time, but at length came to Jim. I should have overlooked him, for he had rather an innocent face, but for a certain bulkiness about his body. Jim did not go straight home, but took a certain broker’s on the way. He went through to the back shop, and I surprised him there in the act of unloading. The broker, of course, protested perfect innocence, but I took them both. The broker got off by some means, and Jim now stood there alone. The charge was theft, and confined to the articles taken with him, though that did not cover a hundredth part of his pilferings. Was he guilty?

“Yes sir, guilty,” was Jim’s hurried answer, with his head lower on his breast.

“Hae mercy on him!” rang out from the benches behind in the unmistakable tones of Jim’s mother, as the magistrate paused in doubt, possibly feeling to send such a fine lad to prison. “Let him off this time, and he’ll never come back again.”

I was motioned to the side of the magistrate to give my opinion in an undertone. I did try to make it light for the lad. I said I thought he had been prompted to the acts by some one who was uncaught, that his home training had been against such a course, and that he had never been in court before. But I could not refute the statements of his employers, that their losses had extended over more than a year, and been serious indeed. A few moments thought, and the magistrate spoke out without comment of any kind—“Thirty days.”

There was an impassioned outcry in a woman’s voice, but I did not turn in that direction, as I did not want to see anything. I hurried out the prisoner by the side door a moment or two later, and was again clutched by the mother.

“He’ll come oot waur than he gangs in,” she exclaimed in despairing accents, and with bitter reproach.

“Exactly, there’s little doubt of that,” I answered with assumed coolness.

“Is that a just punishment?” she pursued, almost choked with tears, as she clung to the arm of her son, who now seemed to shrink from her in shame, and to long for the seclusion of the cells.

“It’s the Nemesis of crime—the chief part of the punishment,” I returned; “they should think of that before they begin.”

We had to part them by force, and she called me a monster and a brute, which I don’t think I am, though I did feel a little like one at that moment.

Whether Jim had any prompter to his first crime, other than poverty or the desire for tobacco and other luxuries, I never knew. If he had, the man was probably one of the working plumbers, and possibly took warning by Jim’s detection and pilfered no more. At the end of the thirty days his mother was over at the jail door to receive him with open arms and take him home with her. He promised there, at the jail gate, that he would have done with crime for ever. I heard him speak the words, and I believe he sincerely meant to keep the pledge. But there were two things which neither he nor his mother calculated upon. The first was that the taint of crime was now upon him. Who would employ a lad who had been convicted and imprisoned for theft? The second was still more serious, though at the time it probably seemed trifling indeed. In prison, Jim had met his fate in the shape of a young fellow of about his own age, named Joe Knevitt. Joe was the very antipodes of Jim in nature and disposition, yet a very strong friendship appears to have sprung up between them. Joe was sly, cold, cautious, and thoroughly unscrupulous with friend or foe; Jim was daring, hot-headed, impulsive, and passionate. Joe was a professional thief by birth and training; Jim was the reverse. Joe was as cunning a rascal of his age as ever came through my hands, and could never be limed for any but the most trifling sentences, and probably did not reveal his real character to his new acquaintance. When Jim was set at liberty Joe had a week or two to remain in jail, so they might have been separated for ever but for the taint of crime.

Jim was really not much worse through being in prison, but things were very much worse for him. He tried to get work, and was everywhere asked for his character. Sometimes he took courage and confessed the truth, but when he did he was invariably dismissed at once without further parley and with marked distrust. Then his mother scraped together enough money to send him to Glasgow, in the hope that he would succeed better where he was not known. Jim used every penny of the money, and tramped back the forty miles in a half-famishing state. Of course his mother cheered and consoled him, and slaved for him at her wash-tub without a murmur; but a young lad must fill up his time in some way. He could not sit all day looking at his fingers, and he needed a little money if only to keep him in tobacco. He met Joe Knevitt one day, and from that hour his troubles seemed at an end; his silence and sullen despair vanished, he was always cheerful and kind to his mother, and never wanted money. But how the money was earned and how his time was spent he never could clearly explain. He was not much in the house, and was never absent for a night at a time, but his mother was deep in her work and knew nothing, whatever she may have feared. I daresay she had many a sorrowful hour, and pleaded and remonstrated with him unceasingly, for the singular feature of Jim’s case was that his new life did not harden him against his mother. If he was becoming dissipated and brutalised, no trace of that was ever expended upon her. With her he was always subdued and silent or full of promises for the future. There were thus two influences at work—one dragging him downwards and the other tugging him back. Joe Knevitt’s proved the stronger, for when this had gone on for some time Jim was again in my hands. This time it was for an attempt—the very daring of which almost took my breath away. I suppose the planning had been done by Joe Knevitt, but the execution—the lion’s share of the work—fell to Jim.

The place chosen was a clothier’s at the South Side—a shilling-a-week clubman—whose business premises were the third flat of a land of houses, the fourth of which was the top. There was not the slightest chance of getting in unseen by the door, as one part of the flat was let to a person who was seldom out of the house. The remainder was locked up when not occupied by the clothier and his band of tailors, and most of the windows looked to the back. It happened that the house was a corner one, and after much study and reconnoitering the intending thieves decided upon a mode of entering which I would not have risked for all the webs of cloth that ever were woven. A quiet and very dark Sunday night was chosen for the attempt. The two got up on the roof of the corner house joining that occupied by the clothier, and Jim, who had under his coat a long length of rope wound round his body with which to lower the webs of cloth to his pal, crept down to the edge of the slates, and loosened with his practised hand the zinc roan or rain gutter running along the edge of the slates. This precarious bridge he sloped over the angle to the window of the clothier’s store-room, a distance of only about twelve feet, but with a slope on it that would have made anyone shudder had they been forced to walk that plank against their will. Joe steadied the top end of the frail bridge, and Jim went sliding down and across with his life in his hands. He was _seen_ doing it, and the accidental spectator afterwards assured me that his own hair nearly stood on end as he saw it done. The passage was accomplished swiftly, and in safety, but Jim’s difficulties were only begun. He stood on the window-sill, three storeys from the ground, but tug as he could the window-sash refused to move. Fancying that it might have been fastened inside he removed one pane of glass in a fashion of his own, inserted his arm, and found to his dismay that the window was not bolted in any way, but only paint-fast. To attempt to move it he knew would be folly, and yet he could not go back to the opposite roof. There was only one way out of the fix—to strip off his jacket and the rope he had brought and try to wriggle through that open pane. He removed as many of the points of broken glass as he could with the aid of his jacket, but in doing so let go the end of his rope, which dropped into the green behind, and left him there isolated and helpless. He cursed over the loss, doubtless, but quickly began the wriggling business, and in a few minutes had struggled through—his shirt sleeves and waistcoat, and even his skin, considerably torn and damaged in transit. When he was in, and the whole coast clear, he thought little of the trouble and danger. He passed to the next room, found the window of that more manageable, and coolly proceeded to select his plunder. He did not hurry himself, for he had not the slightest suspicion of having been seen, every window near him being dark. Having made his selection, he was in the act of tearing up a web of cloth into strips to replace his lost rope, and lower the plunder by, when he was startled by a sudden, shrill whistle, at the far-off end of the green below. He knew the whistle, and what it meant—danger! but could not conceive why the shrill sound should have been thrown out at such a time. Joe was surely growing childishly timid. Jim went to the window, ready opened, and peered out. Not a soul was in sight. Reassured, he went back to his rope-making, but had made no progress worth recording, when a loud knock at the outer door of the house brought him to his feet, with his heart beating fast with dismay. Only till he heard the door opened and a rough voice say something about “thieves in the house,” did he delay. He did not even think of a rope of cloth strips. The hands of the police were already on the door of the room. He sprang at the window, remembering as he did so the exact position of the roan pipe running down outside the house into the drains below. The pipe was of cast-iron, and fastened to the wall with strong stancheons. Jim grasped it from his perch on the window-sill, and ran down it hand under hand as if it had been a rope. It was a feat he would never have attempted in cold blood. He reached the green just as the policemen thrust out their heads at the window above and sprang their rattles. Then he dived for the nearest doorway, but was there met by a man who had helped to give the alarm, and who collared him and gave him a hard struggle for liberty. Jim was younger and lighter than his captor, but he was desperate, and he came off victor, and, leaving the man almost breathless on the ground, he was off into hiding as fast as fear and his supple limbs could carry him. The struggle, however, had taken place near a bright stair-light, and the vanquished man had a full and clear view of Jim’s features, and was able to give me, an hour or two later, such a description that I had little doubt of being able to trace the scared thief. Only _one_ had really been seen at the job, and I was not surprised, on making inquiries for Joe Knevitt, to hear that he was “away in Glasgow, and had been there for a week.” The same could not be said of Jim Hutson, for I found him in his mother’s house demurely kneeling by the hearthstone, and helping his mother by chopping sticks. He denied having been out the night before, and his mother with tears supported his statement—doubtless believing it true—for he might have waited till she slept before he went out. But I had to take him, and, of course, he was identified—picked out of a dozen men without a moment’s hesitation—and locked up. His mother was at the Police Court next day (in tears, of course), and with her old appeal on her lips—

“Jim was aye a gude laddie; he may be guilty, but he’s been led away.”

I could not listen to her this time, and kept out of her reach. How could I say a word in favour of him now, when I knew him to keep company constantly with the worst of my “bairns?” Jim was remitted to the High Court, where he got a year’s imprisonment. I nipped up Joe for another affair some time after, so in misfortune they were not divided.

I have not yet noticed Jim Hutson’s knife. It was at this capture that I saw it first, when I emptied his pockets at the Central Office. It was a murderous looking weapon with two blades. The big blade was at least six inches long, but was not fitted with a spring back, or Jim would have looked upon it for the last time, as it is illegal to carry such a knife. Perhaps it would have been well for Jim if such a confiscation had taken place. The knife was of a peculiar make, probably foreign, and had a hole drilled through the buck-horn handle, as for a cord, and most likely had been stolen from some sailor. Across the buck-horn handle Jim had made two deep notches with a file, with a cross cut between, forming the letter H.