The little instrument on the table by the inspector's desk went "tick-tock". Then it stopped, as though considering how it should work the message it had to give.
It was very still in the charge-room, so still that the big clock above the fireplace was audible. That, and the squeaky scratching of the inspector's quill pen, as it moved slowly over the yellow paper on the desk before him, were the only sounds in the room. Outside it was raining softly, the streets were deserted, and the lines of lamps stretching cast and west emphasized the loneliness.
"Tick-tock", said the instrument on the table excitedly "tick- rock, tick-tock."
The inspector's high stool creaked as he set up, listening.
There was a constable at the door, and he, too, heard the frantic call.
"What's that, Gill? demanded the inspector testily.
The constable came into the charge-room with heavy footsteps.
"Ticketty-ticketty-tick-tock", babbled the instrument, and
the constable wrote the message: "All stations arrest and detain George Thomas, on ticket-of-leave, aged 35, height Sf. 8 in., complexion hair dark, cyes brown, of gentlemanly appearance. Suspected of being concerned in warehouse robbery. Walthamstow and Canning Town especially note this and acknowledge. S.Y.
"In the middle of the night!" exclaimed the inspector despairingly. "They call me up to tell what I've told them hours and hours ago! What a system!"
He nodded his head hopelessly.
Outside, in the thin rain a man was coming along the street, his hands deep in his pockets, his coat collar turned up, his head on his breast. He shuffled along, his boots squelching in the rain, and slackened his pace as he came up to the station. The policeman he expected to find at the door was absent.
The man stood uneasily at the foot of the steps, set his teeth, and mounted slowly. He halted again in the passage out of which the charge-room opened...
"It's a rum thing about Thomas”, said the inspector's voice. "I thought he was trying to go straight."
"It's his wife, sir", said the constable, and there was a long silence, broken by the loud ticking of the clock.
"Then, why did his wife give him away?" asked the inspector.
"Did she, sir?"
There was surprise in the constable's voice, but the man in the passage did not hear that. He was leaning against the painted wall, his hand at his throat, his thin, unshaven face a dirty white, his lips trembling
"She gave him away", said the inspector. He spoke with the deliberation of a man enjoying the sensation of dispensing exclusive news. “Know her?"
"Slightly, sir", said the policeman's voice.
"Handsome woman-she might have done better than
Thomas."
"I think she has”, said the constable dryly, and they both laughed. "That's the reason, is it? Wants to put him under screw
well, I've heard of such cases....."
The man in the passage crept quietly out. He was shaking in every limb; he almost fell at the last step, and clutched the railing that bordered that station house to keep himself crect.
The rain was pouring down but he did not notice it; he was hocked, paralysed by his knowledge. He had broken into a warehouse because she had laughed to scorn his attempt at reformation. He had tried to go straight and she had made him go crooked...and then, when the job was done, with all the old cleverness so that he left no trace of his identity, she had gone straight away to the police and put him away. But that was nothing. Women had done such things before; out of jealousy, in a fit of insane anger at some slight, real or fancied, but she had done it deliberately, wickedly, because she loved some man better than she loved him.
He was cool now, seeing things very clearly, and quickened his walk until he was stepping out briskly and lightly, holding his head erect as he had in the days when he was a junior in a broker's office, and she had been a novel-reading miss of Balham.
The rain streamed down his face, the cuffs of his thin jacket clung to his wrists, his trousers were soaked from thigh to ankle. He knew a little shop off the Commercial Road where they sold cheese and butter and food. He had purchased for a penny a morsel of bread and cheese; he remembered that the woman behind the counter had cut the cheese with a heavy knife, newly whetted and pointed... he thought the matter out as he turned in the direction of the shop. Such knives are usually kept in a drawer, next to the till, with the bacon saw and the milk tester, and the little rubber stamp which is used for branding margarine in accordance with the law.
He knew the shop would be shuttered, the door locked, and he had no Instrument to force an entrance. The "kit" was In the hands of the police he had wondered how the splits (detectives) had found them now he knew,
He gulped down a sob.
Sull, there must be a way, The knife was necessary, He was still weak from his last term of penal servitudo, he could not kill her with his hands, she was so strong and beautiful-oh, so beautifull
Thinking disconnectedly, he came to the shop
It stood in a little sidestreet. There was one street lamp giving light to the thoroughfare. There was no sound but the dismal drip of rain, nobody in sight. There was a skylight above the shuttered door it was the only way, he saw that at once. Sometimes these are left unfastened. He stood on tiptoe and felt gingerly along the lower part of the sash. His fingers encountered something that lay on the ledge, and his heart leapt. It was a key. He had guessed this to be a "lock-up" shop; he knew enough of the casual character of these little shopkeepers not to be surprised at the cuse with which an entry might be effected, He slipped the key into the lock, turned it, and stepped in closing the door behind him softly.
The air of the shop was hot and stuffy, full of the pungent scent of food-stuffs...cheese and ham, and the resinous odour of firewood. He had matches in his pocket, but they were sodden and would not strike. He fumbled round the shelves and came upon a packet, He struck a light, guarding the flame with his hand. The shop had been swept and made tidy for the night. The weights were neatly arranged on cither side of the scales. There was a piece of muslin laid over the butter on the salt slab. On the counter, conspicuously displayed, was a note. It contained instructions, written in pencil in a large, uneducated hand, to "Pred". He was to light the fire, put the kettle on, take in the milk, and serve. "Mrs. Smith."
30
WORLD FAMOUS GHOST STOM
Fred was the boy, the early comer in the morning, for whom the key had been placed. It was remarkable that he sended af these particulars to his own satisfaction, as, lighting match after match, he sought the heavy knife with the sharp point and the newly whetred edge. He even felt a certain exultation in the case with which he had gained admission to the shop and an insanc desire to whistle and talk.
He found the knife. It was under the counter with a greatly scarred cutting board and a steel. He wrapped it up carefully in a sheet of newspaper, then remembered he was hungry He beke off a wedge of cheese. There was no bread, but an open tino children's biscuits was handy.
With the food in his hand, with the knife in his pocker, ke continued his exploration. Behind the shop was a little parlour The door was unlocked, and he entered.
He struck match after match, hesitated a moment, then lir the gas. It was a tiny room, cheaply but neatly furnished. There were China ornaments on the mantel-shelf, a few cheap lithographs on the wall, and a loudly ticking clock. There was s clock at the police-station...he made a grimace as though he were in pain, felt with his hand for the knife and smiled.
He sat at a little table in the middle of the room and ate the food mechanically, staring hard at the wall ahead of him.
He had done everything for her; his first crime...the lex sovereigns extracted from the cash-box...She had inspired thar. her little follies, her little extravagances, her vanities, these had been at the bottom of every step he had taken..staring blankly at the wall with wide-opened eyes, he traced his descent.
There was a text on the wall; he had been staring at it all this time, an ill-printed text, black-and-gold, green and vod crimson, sadly out of register and bearing in the bottom left hand corner the conspicuous confession that it was "Printed in Saxony."
His thoughts were claborate thoughts, but inclined to dive sideways into inconsequent bypaths; insensibly he had fixed his cyes on the text, in a subconscious attempt to concentrate his thoughts. One half of his brain pursued the deadly course of retrospection, the other half grappled half-heartedly with the words on the wall. He read only those that were in capital letters,
Behold...Lamb..God...taketh Away...Sins...World. Three years' penal servitude for burglary, two terms of six
months for breaking and entering...She had been at his elbow...years ago he was a member of a church, sang in the choir, and religious matters had some significance to him. It is strange how such things drop away from a grown man, how the sweet bloom of faith is rubbed off...He married her at a registry office in Marylebone, and they went to Brighton for their honeymoon. She knew well enough that he could not afford to live as they were living; he had never dreamt that she guessed that he was robbing his employer, and when coolly, and with some amusement, she revealed her knowledge, he was shocked, stunned.
"Behold... Lamb...
Might religion have helped him had he kept closer to its teachings? He wondered, slowly munching his biscuit and cheese, with his eyes on the garish text.
He found some milk and drank it, then he rose. Where he had sat were two little pools of water, one on the floor, the other on the table where his arm had rested. He turned out the light, walked softly thorough the shop, listened, and opened the door gently. There was nobody in sight, and he stepped our, closing and locking the door behind him. He put the key on the ledge where he had found it, and went quickly to the main road, the heavy knife, newly whetted and with a sharp point, bumping against his thigh with every step he took.
He had an uncasy feeling, and strove to analyse it down to a first cause. He decided it was the text, and smiled; then all of a sudden the smile froze on his lips. He was not alone.
To be continued...
