The Victorian Villains Megapack

by Arthur Morrison

  “Keepin’ your mouth shut?” remarked the deputy to McAllister, as he entered the words “Prisoner refuses to answer,” and blotted them.

  “We’re rather crowded just now,” he added apologetically. “I guess I’ll send you to Murderer’s Row. Holloa, there!” he called to someone above, “one for the first tier!”

  A keeper seized the clubman by the arm, opened a door in the steel grating, and pushed him through. “Go ’long up!” he ordered.

  McAllister started wearily up the stairs. At the top of the flight he came to another door, behind which stood another keeper. In the background marched in ceaseless procession an irregular file of men. In the gloom they looked like ghosts. Aimlessly they walked on, one behind the other, most of them with eyes downcast, wordless, taking that exercise of the body which the law prescribed.

  McAllister entered The Den of Beasts.

  “All right, Jimmy!” yelled the keeper to the deputy warden below. Then, turning to McAllister. “I’m goin’ to put you in with Davidson. He’s quiet, and won’t bother you if you let him alone. Better give him whichever berth he feels like. Them double-decker cots is just as good on top as they is below.”

  McAllister followed the keeper down the narrow gangway that ran around the prison. In the stone corridor below a great iron stove glowed red-hot, and its fumes rose and mingled with the tainted air that floated out from every cell. Above him rose tier on tier, illuminated only by the gray light which filtered through a grimy window at one end of the prison. The arrangement of cells, the “bridges” that joined the tiers, and the murky atmosphere, heightened the resemblance to the “’tween decks” of an enormous slaver, bearing them all away to some distant port of servitude.

  “Get up there, Jake! Here’s a bunkie for you.”

  McAllister bent his head and entered. He was standing beside a two-story cot bed, in a compartment about six by eight feet square. A faint light came from a narrow, horizontal slit in the rear wall. A faucet with tin basin completed the contents of the room. On the top bunk lay a man’s soiled coat and waistcoat, the feet of the owner being discernible below.

  The keeper locked the door and departed, while the occupant of the berth, rolling lazily over, peered up at the new-comer; then he sprang from the cot.

  “Mr. McAllister!” he whispered hoarsely.

  It was Wilkins—the old Wilkins, in spite of a new light-brown beard.

  For a few moments neither spoke.

  “Sorry to see you ’ere, sir,” said Wilkins at length, in his old respectful tones. “Won’t you sit down, sir?”

  McAllister seated himself upon the bed automatically.

  “You here, Wilkins?” he managed to say.

  Wilkins laughed rather bitterly.

  “I’ve been in stir a good part of the time since I left you, sir; an’ two weeks ago I pleaded guilty to larceny and was sentenced to one year more. But I’m glad to see you lookin’ so well, if you’ll pardon me, sir.”

  “I’m sorry for you, Wilkins,” the master managed to reply. “I hope my severity in that matter of the pin did not bring you to this!”

  Wilkins hesitated for a moment.

  “It ain’t your fault, sir. I was born crooked, I fancy, sir. It’s all right. You’ve got troubles of your own. Only—you’ll excuse me, sir—I never suspected anything when I was in your service.”

  McAllister did not grasp the meaning of this remark; he only felt relief that Wilkins apparently bore him no ill-will. Very few of his friends would have followed up a theft of that sort. They expected their men to steal their pins.

  “Mebbe I might ’elp you. Wot’s the charge, sir?”

  With his former valet as a sympathetic listener, McAllister poured out his whole story, omitting nothing, and, as he finished, leaned forward, searching eagerly the other’s face.

  “Now, what shall I do? What shall I do, Wilkins?”

  The latter coughed deprecatingly.

  “You’ll pardon me, but that’ll never go, sir! You’ll have to get somethin’ better than that, sir. The jury will never believe it.”

  McAllister sprang to his feet, in so doing knocking his head against the iron support of the upper cot.

  “How dare you, Wilkins! What do you mean?”

  “There, there, sir!” exclaimed the other. “Don’t take on so. Of course I didn’t mean you wouldn’t tell the truth, sir. But don’t you see, sir, hit isn’t I as am goin’ to listen to it? Shall I fetch you some water to wash your face, sir?” He turned on the faucet.

  The clubman, yielding to the force of ancient habit, allowed Wilkins to let it run for him, and having washed his face and combed his hair, felt somewhat refreshed.

  “That feels good,” he remarked, rubbing his hands together.

  It was obvious that so long as he remained in prison he would be either “Fatty Welch” or someone else equally depraved; and since he could not make anyone understand, it seemed his best plan to accept for the time, with equanimity, the personality that fate had thrust upon him.

  “Well, Wilkins, we’re in a tight place. But we’ll do what we can to assist each other. If I get out first I’ll help you, and vice versa. Now, what’s the first thing to be done? You see, I’ve never been here before.”

  “That’s the talk, sir,” answered Wilkins. “Now, first, who’s your lawyer?”

  “Haven’t any, yet.”

  “All depends on the lawyer,” returned the valet judicially. “Now, there’s Carter, and Herlihy, and Kemp, all sharp fellows, but they’re always after you for money, and then they’re so clever that the jury is apt to distrust ’em. The best thing, I find, is to get the most respectable old solicitor you can—kind of genteel, ‘family’ variety, with the goodness just stickin’ hout all hover ’im. ’E creates a hatmosphere of hinnocence, and that’s wot you need. One as ’as white ’air and can talk about ‘this boy ’ere’ and can lay ’is ’and on yer shoulder and weep. That’s the go, sir.”

  “I understand,” said McAllister.

  Under the guidance of his valet our hero secured writing materials and indicted a pitiful appeal to his family lawyer.

  A gong rang; the squad of prisoners who had been exercising went back to their cells, and the keeper came and unlocked the door.

  McAllister stepped out and fell into line. His tight clothes proved very uncomfortable as he strode round the tiers, and the absence of a collar—yes, that was really the most unpleasant feature. His neck was not much to boast of, therefore he always wore his shirts low and his collars high. Now, as he stumbled along, he was the object of considerable attention from his fellows.

  At the end of an hour another gong sounded. In a moment the tiers were empty; fifty doors clanged to.

  “Well, Wilkins?”

  “Being as this is Sunday, sir, we ’ave a few hours’ service. Church of England first, then City Mission. We’re not hallowed to talk, but if you don’t mind the ’owlin’ you can snatch a wink o’ sleep. Christmas dinner at twelve. Old Burridge, the trusty, was a-tellin’ me as ’ow it’s hexcellent, sir!”

  McAllister looked at his watch in despair. It was only a quarter past ten. He had not been to church for fifteen years, but evidently he was in for it now. Following his former valet’s example, he took off his shoes and stretched himself upon the cot.

  On and on in never-varying tones dragged the service. The preacher held the key to the situation. His congregation could not escape; he had a full house, and he was bent on making the most of it.

  The hands of McAllister’s watch crept slowly round to five minutes before eleven.

  When at last the preacher stopped, carefully folded his manuscript, and pronounced the benediction, a prolonged sigh of relief eddied through the Tombs. Men were waking on all sides; cots creaked; there was a general and contagious yawn.

  Again the gong rang, and with
it the smell of food floated up along the tiers. McAllister realized that he was hungry—not mildly, as he was at the club, but ravenous, as he had never been before. Presently the longed-for food came, borne by a “trusty” in new white uniform. Wilkins, who had been making a meagre toilet at the faucet, took in the dinner through the door—two tin plates piled high with turkey and chicken, flanked by heaps of potato and carrots, and one whole apple pie!

  “Ha!” thought McAllister, “I was not so far wrong about this part of it!” The chicken was perhaps not of the variety known as “spring”; but neither master nor man noticed it as they feasted, sitting side by side upon the cot.

  “Carrots!” philosophized McAllister, looking regretfully at his empty tin plate. “Now, I thought only horses ate carrots; and really, they’re not bad at all. I should like some more. Er—Wilkins! Can we get some more carrots?”

  Wilkins shook his head mournfully.

  “Message for 34! Message for 34!”

  A letter was thrust through the bars.

  McAllister tore it open with feverish haste, and recognized the crabbed hand of old Mr. Potter.

  2 East Seventy-First Street.

  F. Welch, Esq.

  Sir:

  The remarkable letter just delivered to me, signed by a name which you request me not to use in my reply, has received careful consideration. I telephoned to Mr. Mc——’s rooms, and was informed by his valet that that gentleman had gone to the country to visit friends over Christmas. I have therefore directed the messenger to collect from yourself his fee for delivering this answer. Yours, etc.,

  Ebenezer Potter.

  “That fool Frazier!” groaned McAllister. “How the devil could he have thought I had gone away?” Then he remembered that he had directed the valet to pack his bags and send them to the station, in anticipation of the Winthrops’ invitation.

  He was at his wits’ end.

  “How do you get bail, Wilkins?”

  “You ’ave to find someone as owns real estate in the city, sir, to go on your bond. ’Ow much is it?”

  “Five thousand dollars,” replied McAllister.

  “’Oly Moses!” ejaculated the valet. He regarded his former master with renewed interest.

  But the dinner had wrought a change in that hitherto subdued individual. With a valet and running water he was beginning to feel his oats a little. He checked off mentally the names of his acquaintances. There was not one left in town.

  He repressed a yawn, and looked at his watch. One o’clock. Just then the gong rang again.

  “What in thunder is this, now?”

  “Afternoon service, sir. City Mission from one to two-thirty.”

  “Ye gods!” ejaculated McAllister.

  A band of young girls came and stood with their hymn-books along the opposite tier, while a Presbyterian clergyman took the place on the bridge recently vacated by his Episcopal brother. Prayers alternated with hymns until the sermon, which lasted sixty-five minutes.

  McAllister, almost desperate, fretted and fumed until half past two, when the choir and missionary finally departed.

  “Only a ’arf ’our, sir, an’ we can get some more hexercise,” said Wilkins encouragingly.

  But McAllister did not want exercise. He swung to his feet, and peering disconsolately through the bars was suddenly confronted by an anæmic young woman holding an armful of flowers. Before he could efface himself she smiled sweetly at him.

  “My poor man,” she began confidently, “how sorry I am for you this beautiful Christmas Day! Please take some of these; they will brighten up your cell wonderfully; and they are so fragrant.” She pushed a dozen carnations and asters through the bars.

  McAllister, utterly dumfounded, took them.

  “What is your name?” continued the maiden.

  “Welch!” blurted out our bewildered friend.

  There was a stifled snort from the bunk behind.

  “Good-by, Welch. I know you are not really bad. Won’t you shake hands with me?”

  She thrust her hand through the bars, and McAllister gave it a perfunctory shake.

  “Good-by,” she murmured, and passed on.

  “Lawd!” exploded Wilkins, rolling from side to side upon his cot. “O Lawd! O Lawd! O—” and he held his sides while McAllister stuck the carnations into the wash-basin.

  The gong again, and once more that endless tramp along the hot tiers. The prison grew darker. Gas-jets were lighted here and there, and the air became more and more oppressive. With five o’clock came supper; then the long, weary night.

  Next morning the valet seemed nervous and excited, eating little breakfast, and smiling from time to time vaguely to himself. Having fumbled in his pocket, he at last pulled out a dirty pawn-ticket, which he held toward his master.

  “’Ere, sir,” he said with averted head. “It’s for the pin. I’m sorry I took it.”

  McAllister’s eyes were a little blurred as he mechanically received the card-board.

  “Shake hands, Wilkins,” was all he said.

  A keeper came walking along the tier rattling the doors and telling those who were wanted in court to get ready.

  “Good-by,” said McAllister. “I’m sorry you felt obliged to plead guilty. I might have helped you if I’d only known. Why didn’t you stand your trial?”

  “I ’ad my reasons,” replied the valet. “I wanted to get my case disposed of as quick as possible. You see, I’d been livin’ in Philadelphia, and ’ad just come to New York when I was harrested. I didn’t want ’em to find out who I was or where I come from, so I just gives the name of Davidson, and takes my dose.”

  “Well,” said McAllister, “you’re taking your own dose; I’m taking somebody else’s. That hardly seems a fair deal—now does it, Wilkins? But, of course, you don’t know but that I am Welch.”

  “Oh, yes, I do, sir!” returned the valet. “You won’t never be punished for what he done.”

  “How do you know?” exclaimed McAllister, visions of a speedy release crowding into his mind. “And if you knew, why didn’t you say so before? Why, you might have got me out. How do you know?” he repeated.

  Wilkins looked around cautiously. The keeper was at the other end of the tier. Then he came close to McAllister and whispered:

  “Because I’m Fatty Welch myself!”

  VI

  Downstairs, across the sunlit prison yard, past the spot where the hangings had taken place in the old days, up an enclosed staircase, a half turn, and the clubman was marched across the Bridge of Sighs. Most of the prisoners with him seemed in good spirits, but McAllister, who was oppressed with the foreboding of imminent peril, felt that he could no longer take any chances. His fatal resemblance to Fatty Welch, alias Wilkins, his former valet, the circumstances of his arrest, the scar on his neck, would seem to make conviction certain unless he followed one of two alternatives—either that of disclosing Welch’s identity or his own. He dismissed the former instantly. Now that he knew something of the real sufferings of men, his own life seemed contemptible. What mattered the laughter of his friends, or sarcastic paragraphs in the society columns of the papers? What did the fellows at the club know of the game of life and death going on around them? of the misery and vice to which they contributed? of the hopelessness of those wretched souls who had been crushed down by fate into the gutters of life? Determined to declare himself, he entered the court-room and tramped with the others to the rail.

  There, to his amazement, sat old Mr. Potter beside the Judge. Tom and his partner stood at one side.

  “Welch, step up here.”

  Mr. Potter nodded very slightly, and McAllister, taking the hint, stepped forward.

  “Is this your prisoner, officer?”

  “Shure, that’s him, right enough,” answered Tom.

  “Discharged,” said the magistrate.<
br />
  Mr. Potter shook hands with his honor, who smiled good-humoredly and winked at McAllister.

  “Now, Welch, try and behave yourself. I’ll let you off this time, but if it happens again I won’t answer for the consequences. Go home.”

  Mr. Potter whispered something to the baffled officers, who grinned sheepishly, and then, seizing McAllister’s arm, led our astonished friend out of the court-room.

  As they whirled uptown in the closed automobile which had been waiting for them around the corner, Mr. Potter explained that after sending the letter he had felt far from satisfied, and had bethought him of calling up Mrs. Winthrop on the telephone. Her polite surprise at the lawyer’s inquiries had fully convinced him of his error, and after evading her questions with his usual caution, he had taken immediate steps for his client’s release—steps which, by reason of the lateness of the hour, he could not communicate to the unhappy McAllister.

  “What has become of the fugitive Welch,” he ended, “remains a mystery. The police cannot imagine where he has hidden himself.”

  “I wonder,” said McAllister dreamily.

  * * * *

  It was just seven o’clock when McAllister, arrayed, as usual, in immaculate evening dress, sauntered into the club. Most of the men were back from their Christmas outing; half a dozen of them were engaged in ordering dinner.

  “Hello, Chubby!” shouted someone. “Come and have a drink. Had a pleasant Christmas? You were at the Winthrops’, weren’t you?”

  “No,” answered McAllister; “had to stay right in New York. Couldn’t get away. Yes, I’ll take a dry Martini—er, waiter, make that two Martinis. I want you all to have dinner with me. How would terrapin and canvas-back do? Fill it out to suit yourselves, while I just take a look at the Post.”