Chapter 3

_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.