At that thought, a gleam that was in part irrational lit up his eyes. Presently, he rose and, first reassuring himself that the door was locked, went over to the wooden writing desk which stood in the corner. Here, he took out the few sheets of white shelf paper which had been used to line the drawers. He laid the paper on the floor; then, taking pen and ink, he knelt down and began to block out certain letters in big capitals. He had always had a special talent for printing and in about an hour, although his hand shook slightly and his vision was not quite clear, he had finished. He left the papers on the floor to dry and lay down, fully dressed, upon the bed.
Despite the burning project that filled his mind, he slept, but restively, and always with that same sense of fever gathering in his veins. About seven o'clock he awoke with a start. His headache was worse, a splitting frontal pain, but this merely strengthened his intention. He picked up the paper sheets from the floor, rolled them into a long cylinder and, treading warily as he passed Lena's door, went out.
The rain had quite gone as he hurried down Ware Street, the morning was clear and fresh with the softness of dawn. At the cabman's shelter opposite Duke's Court he stopped, and finding some coins in his pocket, ordered a mug of coffee and a
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thick slice of margarined bread. The food made him feel less ill, but he had not gone half way up Duke's Row before a rush of sickness came over him. He leaned over the gutter in a fit of nausea.
At the end of the Row, Duke's Yard, the premises of the Lanes Billboard Company, at this early hour, were still deserted. He squeezed through a gap in the rotting wooden fence, against which, awaiting his turn, he had so often stood in line with the other sandwichmen. Inside, the double posterboards, scores of them, were packed in a long open corrugated iron shed. Paul selected the newest he could find, and using one of the many "brush-pots" standing in the shed, pasted on his printed sheets. He was about to sling on the boards when his eye was caught by a rusty heap in the corner of the shed. He recognized the iron chains which had been used as an advertising feature during the recent visit to the Palace Theatre of the illusionist, Houdini. Without hesitation, for he was now completely possessed, he went forward and, after some searching, found a sound thin chain and a serviceable padlock. Five minutes later, with the chain round his body and wearing the sandwich boards, he left the yard.
The cathedral clock was striking eight as he came back into Ware Street and started his march towards the centre of the city. Already the bustle of the day had begun. People were swarming from the buses and subway exits. But as they hurried towards their places of business, only a few directed curious glances towards the young man bearing on his back the notice:
MURDER: THE INNOCENT CONVICTED.
And on his chest:
MURDER: THE GUILTY FREE.
If any of them gave the matter a second thought it was to class it as part of an astute advertising campaign — one of these eye-catching slogans which intrigued the public for weeks before the date of disclosure.
Nine o'clock came and Paul still plodded along the gutters, gazing straight ahead, with an expressionless face, clutching the
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heavy boards with rigid hands. Since he wished as long as possible to avoid the attentions of the police, he kept away from the main intersections, at each of which an officer was on point duty. Once or twice he was conscious of a sharp scrutiny, but for once fortune seemed upon his side — no one stopped him.
As the forenoon advanced Paul began to feel faint, but with the real part of his purpose still unaccomplished — this parade was merely the prelude to his main intention — he would not give up. Deafened by the noise of the traffic, splashed with mud from the grinding wheels, he still kept on. Yet he could not altogether master his increasing weakness: several times he swayed uncertainly.
Towards noon a curious crowd had begun to follow him. For the most part it was made up of loafers and out-of-works, the idle riff-raff of the city, augmented by a few errand boys and a mangy, barking dog. At first Paul had been a target for some vulgar jeers, but as he gave no answer, the crowd attended him in silence, mystified perhaps, yet now, by instinct, more than ever certain of reward. Shortly after one o'clock the procession reached Leonard Square and here, at last, under the statue of Robert Greenwood, first Lord Mayor of Wortley, Paul halted. He took off his boards and stood them on the pavement; then, first twisting the chain tightly round his wrist, he padlocked himself to the iron railings at the statue's base. A gasp of bated anticipation went up from the onlookers and immediately, since it was now the lunch hour, the press of people round about increased. When Paul turned and faced the assembly he had an audience of almost a hundred people.
With his free hand he unloosened his necktie — it seemed to be strangling him. He was conscious of no fear, no excitement, only of a desperate urgency to put his case before these citizens of Wortley. Now was his chance, they were waiting on him to speak; Lena had said that ordinary people were kind, he could never have a better, a fairer opportunity to convince them. If onlv his head had not ached so frightfully. Worse than that was the sickness, and the sense of unreality which pervaded him, as though his feet were mounted on balloons which floated dizzily through the air. He moistened his cracked lips.
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"Friends," he began, "I've come here because I've something to tell you . . . something you should know. My name is Mathry and my father is in prison. . . ."
"You'll be there yourself, chum, if you don't watch out!"
The interruption from the back produced a laugh. Paul waited till it died out.
"He's been in prison fifteen years and all for a crime he didn't commit."
"Ah! Tell that to the marines!" shouted another voice from the back. Again the general laugh, followed this time by shouts of "Shut up!" "Fair play," "Give the poor b— a chance!"
"I have proof that my father is innocent but no one will hear me. . . ."
"We can't hear you either, chum, unless you speak up."
"That's right. Speak up. Speak up," cried several others in the crowd.
Paul swallowed dryly. He realized dimly, that although he was straining his throat to the utmost, his voice was emerging faint and cracked. He made a superhuman effort.
"Fifteen years ago on circumstantial evidence my father was convicted of murder. But he did not commit the crime. . . ."
The mongrel dog, which had followed Paul persistently, suddenly began to bark.
"I repeat ... he did not commit the crime ... in proof of which . . ."
But the dog was now barking so loudly, snarling and snapping at Paul's feet, that he could not make himself heard. Then, while he paused, the hound, encouraged no doubt by the approbation of the onlookers, unexpectedly jumped up on him. Paul staggered and almost fell. As he clutched dazedly at the sandwich boards a murmur grew amongst the mob.
"He's drunk."
"Does he think he can make a mug of us!"
"Paste the young soak."
A banana skin flew through the air and pulped against Paul's cheek. It was the signal for a fusillade of bread crusts and unwanted food from people eating their lunch in the crowd. A few apple cores followed by way of variety. At that moment two
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policemen pushed their way through the closely packed crowd. One was a young constable, the other was Sergeant Jupp.
"What's all this? D'yc-u know you're creating a disturbance."
Paul gazed at the two blurred figures in blue, vaguely recognizing Jupp. He had reached the end of his resources. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. The crush around him increased.
"He's tight, Sergeant," a sycophantic voice suggested from the front rank. "Been talkin' a lot of rot."
"You've really done it this time. I've been waiting for it. Come along with us." The sergeant took Paul and tried to pull him through the crowd. Meeting with resistance he pulled violently, almost dislocating
Paul's wrist, before he noticed the presence of the chain. His muscular neck turned dark red.
He muttered to his companion.
"He's padlocked himself. We'll need the wagon."
The two policemen struggled angrily to free the chain, tugging Paul this way and that, while the crowd pressed and milled around them. Another policeman arrived, then hurried off, blowing his whistle. Everyone seemed to push and shout at once, the traffic was held up, there was a general commotion. This was the moment which Paul had foreseen as the climax of his resistance, the crisis when he would deliver his most impassioned address.
"Friends," he tried to shout, "I'm only asking for justice. An innocent man . . ."
But the younger policeman had smashed the padlock with a blow of his truncheon, Paul was bundled into the waiting police wagon, and whirled off to the station. Half insensible he scarcely knew what was happening to him until he was flung forward into a cell. His brow hit the cement floor with stunning force. This made no difference to the splitting pain permanently established within his head, rather it seemed to shock him out of the stupor into which he had fallen. At least, he groaned. This groan had a bad effect on the three policemen who stood watching him, and who were already considerably annoyed by the trouble he had caused them.
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"The young swine," remarked the first. "He's coming out of his drunk."
"No," said Sergeant Jupp, "it's not drink."
The third officer, a stout figure, was still red and fuming — in the struggle someone had kicked him in the stomach.
"Whatever it is, he's not going to muck me about and get away with it."
He bent forward, caught Paul by the scruff of the neck and dragged him upright, like a sack of Hour. Then, clenching his fist, he struck him between the eyes. Blood spurted from Paul's nose. He dropped in a heap and lay still.
"You shouldn't do that," Jupp said coldly. "He'll get enough . . . and soon."
As the cell door clanged on the silent huddled form the youngest of the policemen laughed uncomfortably.
"Anyway," he said, as though salving his conscience, "he asked for it."
CHAPTER VIM
IT was late afternoon when, in an uncertain fashion, Paul again became conscious of his surroundings. He lay for a long time staring up at the single armoured light in the roof of his cell. Then, he got on his hands and knees and crawled to the ewer standing at one end of the wooden plank bed. Tilting the ewer, he took a drink, then dabbed his swollen features. The water was cool and refreshing, but almost at once his face began to burn. Carefully, he pulled himself up and sat down on the plank. His head did not ache so much now. But to his surprise, he was finding it difficult to breathe — at every inspiration he felt a cutting pain in his left side. Presently he discovered that the way to avoid this, or at least to diminish the intensity of the pain, was to breathe less deeply, to take, in fact, only half a breath. Naturally he was obliged to make these shallow respirations faster, but this did not greatly inconvenience him.
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Suddenly, as he sat there, accommodating himself to this new symptom, the cell door opened and a man came in. Paul peered up through his swollen eyes, recognising the Chief Constable of Wortley.
Dale stood staring down at him silently for a long time, as though examining every detail of his condition. In contrast with their previous meeting, his demeanour was aloof, his expression strangely sombre. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and restrained.
"So you didn't take my advice after all. If I remember right, I told you to go home. But no, that wasn't good enough for you. You preferred to stop on and stir up trouble. So here you are, just like I told you, only worse, far worse."
There was another pause.
"No doubt you thought you were mighty smart. Defying my sergeant and getting away with it. Hanging around all these weeks without being picked up. Don't deceive yourself, my friend. All the time vou were living; on mv bountv. I could have hauled you in at a moment's notice. But somehow, against my better judgment, I wanted to give you an extra chance. And you didn't take it."
Dale's lips drew back over his strong teeth.
"So now you're in a pretty poor state, by the looks of you. Maybe my chaps used you a bit rough. But, tut, tut — you mustn't mind. That's what happens when you resist an officer in the execution of his duty. Nobody to blame but yourself."
Again a silence. It seemed as though the Chief Constable were inviting Paul to speak, even hoping that he might do so, might commit himself through some ill-chosen word. But from the moment Dale had entered his cell Paul had resolved to say nothing. His chance would come later, in court. He listened, with a queer sense of detachment, as the Chief resumed:
"And what do you think will happen to you now? Maybe you imagine you'll be let off with a caution and some more good advice. Somehow I don't think so. Somehow I think the dav for advice is past. You had your chance and vou didn't take it. And now you've been worming your way into things that don't concern you, working against the community, bothering decent citi-
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zens, pestering law officials, yes, even annoying Members of the House of Parliament. Besides that," the voice became low, "you've been annoying me. Not that it makes any odds — I'm sure of my ground — it's solid rock. Nevertheless I resent it, I resent your persistence, your imputation that I've done wrong. And now I've a curious feeling that you're going to suffer for it. Now it's you that's done wrong. You'll be up before the magistrate first thing tomorrow. It wouldn't surprise me if he took a serious view of the case and fixed bail pretty high — say fifty pounds. Now you'd have no manner of means of raising a sum like fifty pounds, would you? No, I was afraid not." He shook his head in silent satire. "That means you'll be remanded, back here to us. Well, it's a nice cosy cell you have . . . not much outlook to be sure . . . but every convenience. I hope you like it, for it looks as though you might be in it for quite some time to come."
For a moment longer, his narrowed scrutiny lingered, bore down on Paul, then he swung round and went out.
But as soon as Dale was out of the cell his expression altered. He frowned heavily. He had not been himself in there. He was like an actor who had given a bad performance and was now disgusted with himself. Yet what else, in the devil's name, could he have done? He had received an urgent message asking him to telephone Sir Matthew at the Law Courts. Before he did so he must be in a position to state that he had seen the prisoner.
As he entered his private office and sat down at his desk the cloud upon his brow deepened. Hardened though he was to all sorts of "messes," the sordid tangling of human affairs, which resulted from lives of crime, he did not like this affair that was back again upon his hands, it gave him a queer sensation in his stomach. He wished to God the crazy young fool had taken advantage of his leniency and cleared out during these past weeks. And again that tormenting question flickered out from the back of his mind, less a question than a whisper, a whisper of uncertainty: "Is there something in it . . . after all?"
He jerked his head back, angrily, like a goaded bull. No, by God, so far as he was concerned, there was nothing in it. He knew himself too well. He could produce a record of downright honesty, of unblemished integrity that would stand the closest
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scrutiny. He wasn't like some others he could mention who compromised with their consciences. His motto had always been: You cannot touch pitch and not be defied. His hands were clean.
Yet he stared at the telephone a long time before he could bring himself to unhook the receiver. And he dialed the number slowly, as though in doubt. It was Burr, the clerk, who answered, but almost at once Sprott came on the line.
"Hello! Hello! Is that you Sir Matthew?"
Immediately, Dale heard the click signifying that Sprott had pulled the switch which cut all extraneous connections and made the wire private. Then the prosecutor's voice came over, not this time suave and friendly,
but full of anger.
"What's the reason of this new blunder?"
"Blunder, Sir Matthew?" repeated Dale, doggedly.
"You know perfectly well what I mean. This thing today, in the square. Didn't I give you specific instructions regarding that individual?"
"Your instructions were carried out."
"Then why has this occurred . . . this public pantomime . . . the very thing I was seeking to avoid? You ought to be able to use a little intelligent anticipation, once in a while."
The Chief Constable tried to steady himself. He could not afford to lose his temper. He answered:
"It wasn't easy for us, Sir Matthew. Who was to know what this young idiot was going to be up to? We watched him the best we could. I detailed one of my best men. But we didn't lay our hands on him since you told us not to be harsh. However, he has gone over the score this time. He ought to get six months easily for this."
"Don't be a fool."
There was an odd silence. When Sir Matthew resumed his tone was milder, full of reason.
"Look here, Dale. You were nearer the mark when you used the word idiot. There seems no doubt now but that this young man is a psychopathic case."
The Chief Constable, to control himself, had been drawing patterns on his blotter. But he stopped now, suddenly, and fixed his eyes on the blank wall before him.
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"If that is so," Sprott's voice went on, reasoning mildly, "he becomes immediately a subject, not tor judicial examination and punishment, but for medical treatment in one of our institutions dedicated to the therapy of aberrations of the mind."
"An asylum?" Dale interjected.
Sprott gave back a pained exclamation.
"My dear Dale, don't you realize that such objectionable terms as 'asylum' and 'lunatic' have passed out of civilized speech. To so describe our admirable poor-law institution at Dreem is in my opinion a most unwarrantable slur."
"Ah!" the Chief Constable murmured, in an indescribable tone. "Dreem!"
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