The Council of Justice

by Otto Penzler

  ‘Those fellows,’ said Mr. Peter Sweeney, ‘are not so Bad as I thought they was. One of ’em come to me today and Apologized. He was lookin’ better, too, and offered to sign the petition.’ Peter always gave you the impression in speaking that he was using words that began with capital letters.

  ‘Pa,’ said his son, who had a mind that dealt in material issues, ‘what are you going to do with Manfred’s money?’

  His parent looked at him sternly.

  ‘I shall Devote it to the Cause,’ he said shortly.

  ‘That’s you, ain’t it?’ asserted the innocent child.

  Peter disdained to answer.

  ‘These young men,’ he went on, ‘might do worse than they have done. They are more businesslike than I thought, darker; the town electrician tells me that they had got a power current in their works, they have got a little gas-engine, too, and from the way one of them was handling a big car today on the London road, it strikes me they know something about the business of motorcar running.’

  Gonsalez, coming back from a trial trip on his noisy car, had to report a disquieting circumstance.

  ‘She’s here,’ he said as he was washing the grime from his hands.

  Poiccart looked up from his work—he was heating something in a crucible over an electric stove.

  ‘The Woman of Gratz?’ he asked.

  Leon nodded.

  ‘That is natural,’ Poiccart said and went on with his experiment.

  ‘She saw me,’ said Leon calmly.

  ‘Oh!’ said the other, unconcerned. ‘Manfred said—’

  ‘That she would betray no more—I believe that, and George asked us to be good to her, that is a command.’

  (There was a great deal more in Manfred’s letter to ‘his cousin in London’ than met the governor’s eye.)

  ‘She is an unhappy woman,’ said Gonsalez gravely. ‘It was pitiable to see her at Wandsworth, where she stood day after day with those tragic eyes of hers on the ugly gate of the prison; here, with the result of her work in sight, she must be suffering the tortures of the damned.’

  ‘Then tell her,’ said Poiccart.

  ‘That—’

  ‘That George will escape.’

  ‘I thought of that. I think George would wish it.’

  ‘The Red Hundred has repudiated her,’ Leon went on. ‘We were advised of that yesterday; I am not sure that she is not under sentence. You remember Herr Schmidt, he of the round face? It was he who denounced her.’

  Poiccart nodded and looked up thoughtfully.

  ‘Schmidt—Schmidt,’ he puzzled. ‘Oh yes—there is something against him, a cold-blooded murder, was it not?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Leon very quietly, and they did not speak again of Herr Schmidt of Prague. Poiccart was dipping thin glass rods into the seething, bubbling contents of the crucible, and Leon watched idly.

  ‘Did she speak?’ Poiccart asked after a long interval of silence.

  ‘Yes.’

  Another silence, and then Leon resumed:

  ‘She was not sure of me—but I made her the sign of the Red Hundred. I could not speak to her in the open street. Falmouth’s people were in all probability watching her day and night. You know the old glove trick for giving the hour of assignation. Drawing on the glove slowly and stopping to admire the fit of one, two, or three fingers … so I signalled to her to meet me in three hours’ time.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At Wivenhoe—that was fairly simple, too … imagine me leaning over the side of the car to demand of the willing bystanders how long it would take me to reach Wivenhoe—the last word loudly—would it take me three hours? While they volunteered their counsel, I saw her signal of assent.’

  Poiccart hummed as he worked.

  ‘Well—are you going?’ he asked.

  ‘I am,’ said the other and looked at his watch.

  After midnight, Poiccart, dozing in his chair, heard the splutter and the Gatling-gun explosions of the car as it turned into the extemporized garage.

  ‘Well?’ he asked as Leon entered.

  ‘She’s gone,’ said Gonsalez with a sigh of relief. ‘It was a difficult business, and I had to lie to her—we cannot afford the risk of betrayal. Like the remainder of the Red Hundred, she clings to the idea that we have thousands of people in our organization; she accepted my story of storming the prison with sheer brute force. She wanted to stay, but I told her that she would spoil everything—she leaves for the continent tomorrow.’

  ‘She has no money, of course,’ said Poiccart with a yawn.

  ‘None—the Red Hundred has stopped supplies—but I gave her—’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Poiccart.

  ‘It was difficult to persuade her to take it; she was like a mad thing between her fear of George, her joy at the news I gave her—and remorse.

  ‘I think,’ he went on seriously, ‘that she had an affection for George.’

  Poiccart looked at him.

  ‘You surprise me,’ he said ironically and went to bed.

  Day found them working. There was machinery to be dismantled, a heavy open door to be fixed, new tires to be fitted to the big car. An hour before the midday demonstration came a knock at the outer door. Leon answered it and found a polite chauffeur. In the roadway stood a car with a solitary occupant.

  The chauffeur wanted petrol; he had run himself dry. His master descended from the car and came forward to conduct the simple negotiation. He dismissed the mechanic with a word.

  ‘There are one or two questions I would like to ask about my car,’ he said distinctly.

  ‘Come inside, sir,’ said Leon and ushered the man into the sitting room.

  He closed the door and turned on the fur-clad visitor.

  ‘Why did you come?’ he asked quickly; ‘it is terribly dangerous—for you.’

  ‘I know,’ said the other easily, ‘but I thought there might be something I could do—what is the plan?’

  In a few words, Leon told him, and the young man shivered.

  ‘A gruesome experience for George,’ he said.

  ‘It’s the only way,’ replied Leon, ‘and George has nerves like ice.’

  ‘And after—you’re leaving that to chance?’

  ‘You mean where shall we make for—the sea, of course. There is a good road between here and Clacton, and the boat lies snug between there and Walton.’

  ‘I see,’ said the young man, and he made a suggestion.

  ‘Excellent—but you?’ said Leon.

  ‘I shall be all right?’ said the cheerful visitor.

  ‘By the way, have you a telegraph map of this part of the world?’

  Leon unlocked a drawer and took out a folded paper.

  ‘If you would arrange that,’ he said, ‘I should be grateful.’

  The man who called himself Courtlander marked the plan with a pencil.

  ‘I have men who may be trusted to the very end,’ he said. ‘The wires shall be cut at eight o’clock, and Chelmsford shall be isolated from the world.’

  Then, with a tin of petrol in his hand, he walked back to his car.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  The Execution

  IF YOU PASS THROUGH the little door that leads to the porter’s lodge (the door will be locked and bolted behind you), your conductor will pass you through yet another door into a yard that is guarded by the ponderous doors of the prison at the one end and by a big steel gate at the other. Through this gate you reach another courtyard, and bearing to the right, you come to a flight of stone steps that bring you to the governor’s tiny office. If you go straight along the narrow passage from which the office opens, descend a flight of stairs at the other end, through a well-guarded doorway, you come suddenly into the great hall of the prison. Here galleries run along both sides of the hall, and steel gangways and bridges span the width at intervals. Here, too, polished stairways criss-cross, and the white face of the two long walls of the hall are pitted with little black doors.

  On the
ground floor, the first cell on the right as you enter the hall from the governor’s office is larger and more commodious than its fellows. There is, too, a suspicion of comfort in the strip of matting that covers the floor, in the naked gaslight that flares in its wire cage by day and night, in the table and chair, and the plain comfortable bed. This is the condemned cell. A dozen paces from its threshold is a door that leads to another part of the yard, and a dozen more paces along the flagged pathway brings you to a little unpretentious one-storeyed house without windows, and a doorway sufficiently wide to allow two men to pass abreast. There is a beam where a rope may be made fast, and a trapdoor, and a brick-lined pit, coloured with a salmon-pink distemper.

  From his cell, Manfred was an interested listener, as day by day the uproar of the demonstration before the gates increased.

  He found in the doctor who visited him daily a gentleman of some wit. In a sense, he replaced the governor of Wandsworth as an intellectual companion, for the master of Chelmsford was a reserved man, impregnated with the traditions of the system. To the doctor, Manfred confided his private opinion of the ‘Rational Faithers’.

  ‘But why on earth have you left them so much money?’ asked the surprised medico.

  ‘Because I dislike cranks and narrow, foolish people most intensely,’ was the cryptic reply.

  ‘This Sweeney—’ he went on.

  ‘How did you hear of Sweeney?’ asked the doctor.

  ‘Oh, one hears,’ said Manfred carelessly. ‘Sweeney had an international reputation; besides,’ he added, not moving a muscle of his face, ‘I know about everybody.’

  ‘Me, for instance?’ challenged the man of medicine.

  ‘You,’ repeated Manfred wisely. ‘From the day you left Clifton to the day you married the youngest Miss Arbuckle of Chertsey.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ gasped the doctor.

  ‘It isn’t surprising, is it,’ explained Manfred, ‘that for quite a long time I have taken an interest in the various staffs of the prisons within reach of London?’

  ‘I suppose it isn’t,’ said the other. Nonetheless, he was impressed.

  Manfred’s life in Chelmsford differed in a very little degree from his life in Wandsworth.

  The routine of prison life remained the same: the daily exercises, the punctilious visits of governor, doctor, and chaplain.

  On one point Manfred was firm. He would receive no spiritual ministrations, he would attend no service. He made his position clear to the scandalized chaplain.

  ‘You do not know to what sect I am attached,’ he said, ‘because I have refused to give any information upon that point. I feel sure you have no desire to proselytize or convert me from my established beliefs.’

  ‘What are your beliefs?’ asked the chaplain.

  ‘That,’ said Manfred, ‘is my own most secret knowledge, and which I do not intend sharing with any man.’

  ‘But you cannot die like a heathen,’ said the clergyman in horror.

  ‘Point of view is everything,’ was the calm rejoinder, ‘and I am perfectly satisfied with the wholesomeness of my own; in addition to which,’ he added, ‘I am not going to die just yet, and being aware of this, I shrink from accepting from good men the sympathy and thought that I do not deserve.’

  To the doctor he was a constant source of wonder, letting fall surprising items of news mysteriously acquired.

  ‘Where he gets his information from puzzles me, sir,’ he confessed to the governor. ‘The men who are guarding him—’

  ‘Are above suspicion,’ said the governor promptly.

  ‘He gets no newspapers?’

  ‘No, only the books he requires. He expressed a desire the other day for Three Months in Morocco, said he had half finished it when he was at Wandsworth, and wanted to read it again to “make sure”—so I got it.’

  Three days before the date fixed for the execution, the governor had informed Manfred that, despite the presentation of a petition, the Home Secretary saw no reason for advising the remission of the sentence.

  ‘I never expected a reprieve,’ he replied without emotion.

  He spent much of his time chatting with the two warders. Strict sense of duty forced them to reply in monosyllables, but he interested them keenly with his talk of the strange places of the world. As far as they could, they helped him pass the time, and he appreciated their restricted tightness.

  ‘You are named Perkins,’ he said one day.

  ‘Yes,’ said the warder.

  ‘And you’re Franklin,’ he said to the other, and the man replied in the affirmative. Manfred nodded.

  ‘When I am at liberty,’ he said, ‘I will make you some recompense for your exemplary patience.’

  At exercise on the Monday—Tuesday was the fatal day fixed by the High Sheriff—he saw a civilian walking in the yard and recognized him, and on his return to his cell, he requested to see the governor.

  ‘I would like to meet Mr. Jessen,’ he said when the officer came, and the governor demurred.

  ‘Will you be good enough to refer my request to the Home Secretary by telegraph?’ asked Manfred, and the governor promised that he would.

  To his surprise, an immediate reply gave the necessary permission.

  Jessen stepped into the cell and nodded pleasantly to the man who sat on the edge of the couch.

  ‘I wanted to speak to you, Jessen,’ Manfred said and motioned him to a seat. ‘I wanted to put the business of Starque right, once and for all.’ Jessen smiled.

  ‘That was all right—it was an order signed by the Czar and addressed personally to me—I could do no less than hang him,’ he said.

  ‘Yet you may think,’ Manfred went on, ‘that we took you for this work because—’

  ‘I know why I was taken,’ said the quiet Jessen. ‘Starque and Francois were within the law, condemned by the law, and you strike only at those the law has missed.’

  Then Manfred inquired after the Guild, and Jessen brightened.

  ‘The Guild is flourishing,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I am now converting the luggage thieves—you know, the men who haunt railway stations.’

  ‘Into—?’ asked the other.

  ‘The real thing—the porters they sometimes impersonate,’ said the enthusiast and added dolefully, ‘It’s terribly uphill business, though, getting characters for the men who want to go straight and have only a ticket of leave to identify them.’ As he rose to go, Manfred shook hands.

  ‘Don’t lose heart,’ he said.

  ‘I shall see you again,’ said Jessen, and Manfred smiled.

  Again, if you grow weary of that repetition ‘Manfred smiled’, remember that the two words best describe his attitude in those dreadful days in Chelmsford.

  There was no trace of flippancy in his treatment of the oppressing situation. His demeanour on the occasions when he met the chaplain was one to which the most sensitive could take no exception, but the firmness was insuperable.

  ‘It is impossible to do anything with him,’ said the despairing minister. ‘I am the veriest child in his hands. He makes me feel like a lay preacher interviewing Socrates.’

  There was no precedent for the remarkable condition of affairs, and finally, at Manfred’s request, it was decided to omit the ceremony of the religious service altogether.

  In the afternoon, taking his exercise, he lifted his eyes skyward, and the warders, following his gaze, saw in the air a great yellow kite, bearing a banner that advertised some brand or other of motor tires.

  ‘Yellow kite, all right,’ he improvised and hummed a tune as he marched round the stone circle.

  That night, after he had retired to rest, they took away his prison clothes and returned the suit in which he had been arrested. He thought he heard the measured tramping of feet as he dozed and wondered if the Government had increased the guard of the prison. Under his window, the step of the sentry sounded brisker and heavier.

  ‘Soldiers,’ he guessed and fell asleep.

  He was accurate in
his surmise. At the eleventh hour had arisen a fear of rescue, and half a battalion of guards had arrived by train in the night and held the prison.

  The chaplain made his last effort and received an unexpected rebuff, unexpected because of the startling warmth with which it was delivered.

  ‘I refuse to see you,’ stormed Manfred. It was the first exhibition of impatience he had shown.

  ‘Have I not told you that I will not lend myself to the reduction of a sacred service to a farce? Can you not understand that I must have a very special reason for behaving as I do, or do you think I am a sullen boor rejecting your kindness out of pure perversity?’

  ‘I did not know what to think,’ said the chaplain sadly, and Manfred’s voice softened as he replied:

  ‘Reserve your judgement for a few hours—then you will know.’

  The published accounts of that memorable morning are to the effect that Manfred ate very little, but the truth is that he partook of a hearty breakfast, saying, ‘I have a long journey before me and need my strength.’

  At five minutes to eight, a knot of journalists and warders assembled outside the cell door, a double line of warders formed across the yard, and the extended line of soldiers that circled the prison building stood to attention. At a minute to eight came Jessen with the straps of office in his hand. Then with the clock striking the hour, the governor, beckoning Jessen, entered the cell.

  Simultaneously and in a dozen different parts of the country, the telegraph wires that connect Chelmsford with the rest of the world were cut.

  It was a tragic procession, robbed a little of its horror by the absence of the priest, but sufficiently dreadful. Manfred, with strapped hands, followed the governor, a warder at each arm, and Jessen walking behind. They guided him to the little house without windows and stood him on a trap and drew back, leaving the rest to Jessen. Then, as Jessen put his hand to his pocket, Manfred spoke.

  ‘Stand away for a moment,’ he said. ‘Before the rope is on my neck, I have something to say,’ and Jessen stood back. ‘It is,’ said Manfred slowly, ‘farewell!’

  As he spoke, he raised his voice, and Jessen stooped to pick up the coil of rope that dragged on the floor. Then, without warning, before the rope was raised or any man could touch him, the trap fell with a crash, and Manfred shot out of sight.