At six o’clock in the morning, red-eyed and glaring, he watched Manfred rouse the sleeping Leon and take his place on the bed.
Again and again nature drew the big man’s chin down to his chest, and again and again the icy stream played maddeningly upon him and he woke with a scream.
‘Let me sleep, let me sleep!’ he cried in helpless rage, tugging at the strap. He was half-mad with weariness, his eyes were like lead.
‘Where is Philip Vinci?’ demanded the inexorable Leon.
‘This is torture, damn you – ’ screamed the man.
‘No worse for you than for the boy locked up in a room with four days’ supply of food. No worse than slitting a man’s face with a penknife, my primitive friend. But perhaps you do not think it is a serious matter to terrify a little child.’
‘I don’t know where he is, I tell you,’ said Spaghetti hoarsely.
‘Then we shall have to keep you awake till you remember,’ replied Leon, and lit a cigarette.
Soon after he went downstairs and returned with coffee and biscuits for the man, and found him sleeping soundly.
His dreams ended in a wail of agony.
‘Let me sleep, please let me sleep,’ he begged with tears in his eyes. ‘I’ll give you anything if you’ll let me sleep!’
‘You can sleep on that bed – and it’s a very comfortable bed too – ’ said Leon, ‘but first we shall learn where Philip Vinci is.’
‘I’ll see you in hell before I’ll tell you,’ screamed Spaghetti Jones.
‘You will wear your eyes out looking for me,’ answered Leon politely. ‘Wake up!’
At seven o’clock that evening a weeping, whimpering, broken man, moaned an address, and Manfred went off to verify this information.
‘Now let me sleep!’
‘You can keep awake till my friend comes back,’ said Leon.
At nine o’clock George Manfred returned from Berkeley Square, having released a frightened little boy from a very unpleasant cellar in Notting Hill, and together they lifted the half-dead man from the bath and unlocked the handcuffs.
‘Before you sleep, sit here,’ said Manfred, ‘and sign this.’
‘This’ was a document which Mr Jones could not have read even if he had been willing. He scrawled his signature, and crawling on to the bed was asleep before Manfred pulled the clothes over him. And he was still asleep when a man from Scotland Yard came into the room and shook him violently.
Spaghetti Jones knew nothing of what the detective said; had no recollection of being charged or of hearing his signed confession read over to him by the station sergeant. He remembered nothing until they woke him in his cell to appear before a magistrate for a preliminary hearing.
‘It’s an extraordinary thing, sir,’ said the gaoler to the divisional surgeon. ‘I can’t get this man to keep awake.’
‘Perhaps he would like a cold bath.’ said the surgeon helpfully.
The Man who was Acquitted
‘Have you ever noticed,’ said Leon Gonsalez, looking up from his book and taking off the horn-rimmed glasses he wore when he was reading, ‘that poisoners and baby-farmers are invariably mystics?’
‘I haven’t noticed many baby-farmers – or poisoners for the matter of that,’ said Manfred with a little yawn. ‘Do you mean by “mystic” an ecstatic individual who believes he can communicate directly with the Divine Power?’
Leon nodded.
‘I’ve never quite understood the association of a superficial but vivid form of religion with crime,’ said Leon, knitting his forehead. ‘Religion, of course, does not develop the dormant criminality in a man’s ethical system; but it is a fact that certain criminals develop a queer form of religious exaltation. Ferri, who questioned 200 Italian murderers, found that they were all devout: Naples, which is the most religious city in Europe, is also the most criminal. Ten per cent of those inmates of British prisons who are tattooed are marked with religious symbols.’
‘Which only means that when a man of low intelligence submits to the tattoo artist, he demands pictures of the things with which he is familiar,’ said Manfred, and took up the paper he was reading. Suddenly he dropped the journal on his knees.
‘You’re thinking of Dr Twenden,’ he said and Leon inclined his head slowly.
‘I was,’ he confessed.
Manfred smiled.
‘Twenden was acquitted with acclamation and cheered as he left the Exeter Assize Court,’ he said, ‘and yet he was guilty!’
‘As guilty as a man can be – I wondered if your mind was on the case, George. I haven’t discussed it with you.’
‘By the way, was he religious?’ asked Manfred.
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said the other, shaking his head. ‘I was thinking of the pious letter of thanks he wrote, and which was published in the Baxeter and Plymouth newspapers – it was rather like a sermon. What he is in private life I know no more than the account of the trial told me. You think he poisoned his wife?’
‘I am sure,’ said Manfred quietly. ‘I intended discussing the matter with you this evening.’
The trial of Dr Twenden had provided the newspaper sensation of the week. The doctor was a man of thirty: his wife was seventeen years his senior and the suggestion was that he had married her for her money – she had a legacy of £2,000 a year which ceased at her death. Three months before this event she had inherited £63,000 from her brother, who had died in Johannesburg.
Twenden and his wife had not been on the best of terms, one of the subjects of disagreement being her unwillingness to continue paying his debts. After her inheritance had been transferred to her, she sent to Torquay, to her lawyer, the draft of a will in which she left the income from £12,000 to her husband, providing he did not marry again. The remainder of her fortune she proposed leaving to her nephew, one Jacley, a young civil engineer in the employ of the Plymouth Corporation.
The lawyer drafted her bequests and forwarded a rough copy for her approval before the will was engrossed. That draft arrived at Newton Abbot where the doctor and his wife were living (the doctor had a practice there) and was never seen again. A postman testified that it had been delivered at the 8 o’clock ‘round’ on a Saturday. That day the doctor was called into consultation over a case of viper bite. He returned in the evening and dined with his wife. Nothing happened that was unusual. The doctor went to his laboratory to make an examination of the poison sac which had been extracted from the reptile.
In the morning Mrs Twenden was very ill, showed symptoms which could be likened to blood-poisoning and died the same night.
It was found that in her arm was a small puncture such as might be made by a hypodermic needle, such a needle as, of course, the doctor possessed – he had in fact ten.
Suspicion fell upon him immediately. He had not summoned any further assistance besides that which he could give, until all hope of saving the unfortunate woman had gone. It was afterwards proved that the poison from which the woman had died was snake venom.
In his favour was the fact that no trace of the poison was found in either of the three syringes or the ten needles in his possession. It was his practice, and this the servants and another doctor who had ordered the treatment testified, to give his wife a subcutaneous injection of a new serum for her rheumatism.
This he performed twice a week and on the Saturday the treatment was due.
He was tried and acquitted. Between the hour of his arrest and his release he had acquired the popularity which accumulates about the personality of successful politicians and good-looking murderers, and he had been carried from the Sessions House shoulder high through a mob of cheering admirers, who had discovered nothing admirable in his character, and were not even aware of his existence, till the iron hand of the law closed upon his arm.
Possibly the enth
usiasm of the crowd was fanned to its high temperature by the announcement the accused man had made in the dock – he had defended himself.
‘Whether I am convicted or acquitted, not one penny of my dear wife’s money will I touch. I intend disposing of this accursed fortune to the poor of the country. I, for my part, shall leave this land for a distant shore and in a strange land, amidst strangers, I will cherish the memory of my dear wife, my partner and my friend.’
Here the doctor broke down.
‘A distant shore,’ said Manfred, recalling the prisoner’s passionate words. ‘You can do a lot with sixty-three thousand pounds on a distant shore.’
The eyes of Leon danced with suppressed merriment.
‘It grieves me, George, to hear such cynicism. Have you forgotten that the poor of Devonshire are even now planning how the money will be spent?’
Manfred made a noise of contempt, and resumed his reading, but his companion had not finished with the subject.
‘I should like to meet Twenden,’ he said reflectively. ‘Would you care to go to Newton Abbot, George? The town itself is not particularly beautiful, but we are within half an hour’s run of our old home at Babbacombe.’
This time George Manfred put away his paper definitely.
‘It was a particularly wicked crime,’ he said gravely. ‘I think I agree with you, Leon. I have been thinking of the matter all the morning, and it seems to call for some redress. But,’ he hesitated, ‘it also calls for some proof. Unless we can secure evidence which did not come before the Court, we cannot act on suspicion.’
Leon nodded.
‘But if we prove it,’ he said softly, ‘I promise you, Manfred, a most wonderful scheme.’
That afternoon he called upon his friend, Mr Fare of Scotland Yard, and when the Commissioner heard his request, he was less surprised than amused.
‘I was wondering how long it would be before you wanted to see our prisons, Señor,’ he said. ‘I can arrange that with the Commissioners. What prison would you like to see?’
‘I wish to see a typical county prison,’ said Leon. ‘What about Baxeter?’
‘Baxeter,’ said the other in surprise. ‘That’s rather a long way from London. It doesn’t differ very materially from Wandsworth, which is a few miles from this building, or Pentonville, which is our headquarters prison.’
‘I prefer Baxeter,’ said Leon. ‘The fact is I am going to the Devonshire coast, and I could fill in my time profitably with this inspection.’
The order was forthcoming on the next day. It was a printed note authorising the Governor of H. M. Prison, Baxeter, to allow the bearer to visit the prison between the hours of ten and twelve in the morning, and two and four in the afternoon.
They broke their journey at Baxeter, and Leon drove up to the prison, a prettier building than most of its kind. He was received by the Deputy Governor and a tall, good-looking chief warder, an ex-Guardsman, who showed him round the three wings, and through the restricted grounds of the gaol.
Leon rejoined his companion on the railway station just in time to catch the Plymouth express which would carry them to Newton Abbot.
‘A thoroughly satisfactory visit,’ said Leon. ‘In fact, it is the most amazingly convenient prison I have ever been in.’
‘Convenient to get into or convenient to get away from?’ asked Manfred.
‘Both,’ said Leon.
They had not engaged rooms at either of the hôtels. Leon had decided, if it was possible, to get lodgings near to the scene of the tragedy, and in this he was successful. Three houses removed from the corner house where Doctor Twenden was in residence he discovered furnished lodgings were to let.
A kindly rosy-faced Devonshire woman was the landlady, and they were the only tenants, her husband being a gunner on one of His Majesty’s ships, and he was at sea. She showed them a bright sitting-room and two bedrooms on the same floor. Manfred ordered tea, and when the door closed on the woman, he turned to behold Leon standing by the window gazing intently at the palm of his left hand, which was enclosed, as was the other, in a grey silk glove.
Manfred laughed.
‘I don’t usually make comments on our attire, my dear Leon,’ he said, ‘and remembering your Continental origin, it is remarkable that you commit so few errors in dress – from an Englishman’s point of view,’ he added.
‘It’s queer, isn’t it,’ said Leon, still looking at his palm.
‘But I’ve never seen you wearing silk gloves before,’ Manfred went on curiously. ‘In Spain it is not unusual to wear cotton gloves, or even silk – ’
‘The finest silk,’ murmured Leon, ‘and I cannot bend my hand in it.’
‘Is that why you’ve been carrying it in your pocket,’ said Manfred in surprise, and Gonsalez nodded.
‘I cannot bend my hand in it,’ he said, ‘because in the palm of my hand is a stiff copper-plate and on that plate is half an inch thickness of plastic clay of a peculiarly fine texture.’
‘I see,’ said Manfred slowly.
‘I love Baxeter prison,’ said Leon, ‘and the Deputy Governor is a dear young man: his joy in my surprise and interest when he showed me the cells was delightful to see. He even let me examine the master key of the prison, which naturally he carried, and if, catching and holding his eye, I pressed the business end of the key against the palm of my gloved hand, why it was done in a second, my dear George, and there was nothing left on the key to show him the unfair advantage I had taken.’
He had taken a pair of folding scissors from his pocket and dexterously had opened them and was soon cutting away the silk palm of the glove.
‘ “How wonderful,” said I, “and that is the master key!” and so we went on to see the punishment cell and the garden and the little unkempt graves where the dead men lie who have broken the law, and all the time I had to keep my hand in my pocket, for fear I’d knock against something and spoil the impression. Here it is.’
The underside of the palm had evidently been specially prepared for the silk came off easily, leaving a thin grey slab of slate-coloured clay in the centre of which was clearly the impression of a key.
‘The little hole at the side is where you dug the point of the key to get the diameter?’ said Manfred, and Leon nodded.
‘This is the master key of Baxeter Gaol, my dear Manfred,’ he said with a smile, as he laid it upon the table. ‘With this I could walk in – no, I couldn’t.’ He stopped suddenly and bit his lip.
‘You are colossal,’ said Manfred admiringly.
‘Aren’t I,’ said Leon with a wry face. ‘Do you know there is one door we can’t open?’
‘What is that?’
‘The big gates outside. They can only be opened from the inside. H’m.’
He laid his hat carefully over the clay mould when the landlady came in with the tray.
Leon sipped his tea, staring vacantly at the lurid wallpaper, and Manfred did nor interrupt his thoughts.
Leon Gonsalez had ever been the schemer of the Four Just Men, and he had developed each particular of his plan as though it were a story he was telling himself.
His extraordinary imagination enabled him to foresee every contingency. Manfred had often said that the making of the plan gave Leon as much pleasure as its successful consummation.
‘What a stupid idiot I am,’ he said at last. ‘I didn’t realise that there was no keyhole in the main gate of a prison – except of course Dartmoor.’
Again he relapsed into silent contemplation of the wall, a silence broken by cryptic mutterings. ‘I send the wire . . . It must come, of course, from London . . . They would send down if the wire was strong enough. It must be five men – no five could go into a taxi – six . . . If the door of the van is locked, but it won’t be . . . If it fails then I could try the next night.’
<
br /> ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ asked Manfred good-humouredly.
Leon woke with a start from his reverie.
‘We must first prove that this fellow is guilty,’ he said, ‘and we’ll have to start on that job tonight. I wonder if our good landlady has a garden.’
The good landlady had one. It stretched out for two hundred yards at the back of the house, and Leon made a survey and was satisfied.
‘The doctor’s place?’ he asked innocently, as the landlady pointed out this object of interest. ‘Not the man who was tried at Baxeter?’
‘The very man,’ said the woman triumphantly. ‘I tell you, it caused a bit of a sensation round here.’
‘Do you think he was innocent?’
The landlady was not prepared to take a definite standpoint.
‘Some think one thing and some think the other,’ she replied, in the true spirit of diplomacy. ‘He’s always been a nice man, and he attended my husband when he was home last.’
‘Is the doctor staying in his house?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the woman. ‘He’s going abroad soon.’
‘Oh yes, he is distributing that money, isn’t he? I read something about it in the newspapers – the poor are to benefit, are they not?’
The landlady sniffed.
‘I hope they get it,’ she said significantly.
‘Which means that you don’t think they will,’ smiled Manfred, strolling back from an inspection of her early chrysanthemums.
‘They may,’ said the cautious landlady, ‘but nothing has happened yet. The vicar went to the doctor yesterday morning, and asked him whether a little of it couldn’t be spared for the poor of Newton Abbot. We’ve had a lot of unemployment here lately, and the doctor said “Yes he would think about it”, and sent him a cheque for fifty pounds from what I heard.’
‘That’s not a great deal,’ said Manfred. ‘What makes you think he is going abroad?’
‘All his trunks are packed and his servants are under notice, that’s how I came to know,’ said the landlady. ‘I don’t think it’s a bad thing. Poor soul, she didn’t have a very happy life.’
The Complete Four Just Men Page 67