Melville Davisson Post
I.
PARKS,” said Randolph Mason, “has Leslie Wilder a country place on the Hudson?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the bald little clerk. “It is at Cliphmore, I think, sir.”
“Well,” said Mason, “here is his message, Parks, asking that I come to him immediately. It seems urgent and probably means a will. Find out what time a train leaves the city and have a carriage.”
The clerk took the telegram, put on his coat, and went down on the street. It was cold and snowing heavily. The wind blew up from the river, driving the snow in great, blinding sheets. The melancholy Parks pulled his hat down over his face, walked slowly round the square, and came back to the entrance of the office building. Instead of taking the elevator he went slowly up the steps into the outer office. Here he took off his coat and went over to the window, and stood for some minutes looking out at the white city.
“At any rate he will not suspect me,” he muttered, “and we must get every dollar possible while we can. He won’t last always.”
At this moment a carriage drove up and stopped by the curb. Parks turned round quickly and went into Mason’s private office. “Sir,” he said, “your train leaves at six ten, and the carriage is waiting.”
When Randolph Mason stepped from the train at the little Cliphmore station, it was pitch dark, and the snow was sweeping past in great waves. He groped his way to the little station-house and pounded on the door. There was no response. As he turned round a man stepped up on the platform, pulled off his cap, and said, “Excuse me, sir, the carriage is over here, sir.” Mason followed the man across the platform, and up what seemed to be a gravel road for perhaps twenty yards. Here they found a closed carriage. The man threw open the door, helped Mason in, and closed it, forcing the handle carefully. Then he climbed up in front, struck the horses, and drove away.
For perhaps half an hour the carriage rattled along the gravel road, and Mason sat motionless. Suddenly he leaned over, turned the handle of the carriage door, and jerked it sharply. The door did not open. He tucked the robes around him and leaned back in the seat, like a man who had convinced himself of the truth of something that he suspected. Presently the carriage began to wobble and jolt as though upon an unkept country road. The driver pulled up his horses and allowed them to walk. The snow drifted up around him and he seemed to have great difficulty in keeping to the road Presently he stopped, climbed down from the box and attempted to open the door. He apparently had some difficulty, but finally threw it back and said: “Dis is de place, sir.”
Randolph Mason got out and looked around him. “This may be the place,” he said to the man, “but this is not Wilder’s.”’
“I said dis here is de place,” answered the man, doggedly.
“Beyond a doubt,” said Mason, “and since you are such a cunning liar I will go in.”
The driver left the horses standing and led the way across what seemed to be an unkept lawn, Mason following. A house loomed up in the dark before them. The driver stopped and rapped on the door. There was no light visible and no indication of any inhabitant. The driver rapped again without getting any response. Then he began to curse, and to kick the door violently.
“Will you be quiet?” said a voice from the inside, and the door opened. The hall-way was dark, and the men on the outside could not see the speaker.
“Here is de man, sir,” said the driver.
“That is good,” replied the voice; “come in.”
The two men stepped into the house. The man who had bid them enter closed the door and bolted it. Then he took a lantern from under his coat and led them back through the hall to the rear of the building. The house was dilapidated and old, and had the appearance of having been deserted for many years.
The man with the lantern turned down a side hall, opened a door, and ushered Mason into a big room, where there was a monster log fire blazing.
This room was dirty and bare. The windows were carefully covered from the inside, so as to prevent the light from being seen. There was no furniture except a broken table and a few old chairs. At the table sat an old man smoking a pipe. He had on a cap and overcoat, and was studying a newspaper spread out before him. He seemed to be spelling out the words with great difficulty, and did not look up. Randolph Mason took off his great-coat, threw it over a chair, and seated himself before the fire. The man with the lantern placed it on the mantel-shelf, took up a short pipe, and seating himself on a box by the hearth corner, began to smoke. He was a powerful man, perhaps forty years old, clean and decently dressed. His forehead was broad. His eyes were unusually big and blue. He seemed to be of considerable intelligence, and his expression, taken all in all, was innocent and kindly.
For a time there was nothing said. The driver went out to look after his horses. The old man at the table labored on at his newspaper, and Randolph Mason sat looking into the fire. Suddenly he turned to the man at his left. “Sir,” said he “to what difficulty am I indebted for this honor?”
“Well,” said the man, putting his pipe into his pocket, “the combination is too high for us this time; we can’t crack it. We knew about you and sent for you.”
“Your plan for getting me here does little credit to your wits,” said Mason; “the trick is infantile and trite.”
“But it got you here anyhow,” replied the man.
“Yes,” said Mason, “when the dupe is willing to be one. But suppose I had rather concluded to break with your driver at the station? It is likewise dangerous to drive a man locked in a carriage when he may easily kill you through the window.”
“Trow on de light, Barker,” said the old man at the table; “what is de use of gropin’?”
“Well,” said the younger man, “the fact is simply this: The Boss and Leary and a ‘supe’ were cracking a safe out in the States. They were tunnelling up early in the morning, when the ‘supe’ forced a jimmy through the floor. The bank janitor saw it, and they were all caught and sent up for ten years. We have tried every way to get the boys out, but have been unable to do anything at all, until a few days ago we discovered that one of the guards could be bribed to pass in a kit, and to hit the ‘supe’ if there should be any shooting, if we could put up enough stuff. He was to be discharged at the end of his month anyway, and he did not care. But he would not move a finger under four thousand dollars. We have been two weeks trying to raise the money, and have now only twelve hundred. The guard has only a week longer, and another opportunity will not occur perhaps in a lifetime. We have tried everything, and cannot raise another hundred, and it is our only chance to save the Boss and Leary.”
“Dat is right,” put in the old man; “it don’t go at all wid us, we is gittin’ trowed on it, and dat is sure unless dis gent knows a good ting to push, and dat is what he is here fur, to name de good ting to push. Dat is right, dat ‘s what we ‘s got to have, and we ‘s got to have it now. We don’t keer no hell-room fur de ‘supe,’ it’s de Boss and Leary we wants.”
Randolph Mason got up and stood with his back to the fire. The lines of his face grew deep and hard. Presently he thrust out his jaw, and began to walk backward and forward across the room.
“Barker,” muttered the old man, looking up for the first time, “de guy has jimmy iron in him.”
The blue-eyed man nodded and continued to watch Mason curiously. Suddenly, as he passed the old man at the table, Mason stopped short and put his finger down on the newspaper. The younger man leaped up noiselessly, and looking over Mason’s shoulder read the head-lines under his finger. “Kidnapped,” it ran. “The youngest son of Cornelius Rockham stolen from the millionaire’s carriage. Large rewards offered. No clew.”
“Do you know anything about this?” said Mason, shortly.
“Dat ‘s de hell,” replied the old man, “we does n’t.”
Mason straightened up and swung round on his heel. “Sir,” he said to the man Barker, “are you wanted in New York?”
“No,” he replied, “I am just over; they don’t know me.”
“Good,” said Mason, “it is as plain as a blue print. Come over here.”
The two crossed to the far corner of the room. There Mason grasped the man by the shoulder and began to talk to him rapidly, but in a voice too low to be heard by the old man at the table. “Smoove guy, dis,” muttered the old man. “He may be fly in de nut, but he takes no chances on de large audejence.”
For perhaps twenty minutes Randolph Mason talked to the man at the wall. At first the fellow did not seem to understand, but after a time his face lighted up with wonder and eagerness, and his assurance seemed to convince the speaker, for presently they came back together to the fire.
“You,” said Mason to the old man, “what is your name?”
“It cuts no ice about de label,” replied the old man, pulling at his pipe. “Fur de purposes of dis seeyance I am de Jook of Marlbone.”
“Well,” said Mason, putting on his coat, “Mr. Barker will tell your lordship what you are to do.”
The big blue-eyed man went out and presently returned with the carriage driver. “Mr. Mason,” he said, “Bill will drive you to the train and you will be in New York by twelve.”
“Remember,” said Mason, savagely, turning around at the door, “it must be exactly as I have told you, word for word.”
II
Itell you,” said Cornelius Rockham, “it is the most remarkable proposition that I have ever heard.”
“It is strange,” replied the Police Chief, thoughtfully. “You say the fellow declared that he had a proposition to make in regard to the child, and that he refused to make it save in the presence of witnesses.”
“Yes, he actually said that he would not speak with me alone or where he might be misunderstood, but that he would come here to-night at ten and State the matter to me and such reliable witnesses as I should see fit to have, not less than three in number; that a considerable sum of money might be required, and that I would do well to have it in readiness; that if I feared robbery or treachery, I should fill the house with policemen, and take any and every precaution that I thought necessary. In fact, he urged that I should have the most reliable men possible for witnesses, and as many as I desired, and that I must avail myself of every police protection in order that I might feel amply and thoroughly secure.”
“Well,” said the Police Chief, “if the fellow is not straight he is a fool. No living crook would ever make such a proposition.”
“So I am convinced,” replied Mr. Rockham. “The precautions he suggests certainly prove it. He places himself absolutely in our hands, and knows that if any crooked work should be attempted we have everything ready to thwart it; that there is nothing that he could accomplish, and he would only be placing himself helplessly in the grasp of the police. However, we will not fail to avail ourselves of his suggestion. You will see to it, Chief?”
“Yes,” said the officer, rising and putting on his coat. “We will give him no possible chance. It is now five. I will send the men in an hour.”
At ten o’clock that night, the palatial residence of Cornelius Rockham was in a state of complete police blockade. All the approaches were carefully guarded. The house itself, from the basement to the very roof, literally swarmed with the trusted spies of the police. The Chief felt indeed that his elaborate precautions were in a vast measure unnecessary. He was not a quick man, but he was careful after a ponderous method, and trusted much to precautionary safeguards.
Cornelius Rockham, the Chief, and two sergeants in citizen’s dress, were waiting. Presently the bell rang and a servant ushered a man into the room. He was big and plainly dressed. His hair was brown and his eyes were blue, frank and kindly and his expression was pleasant and innocent, almost infantile.
“Good-evening, gentlemen,” he said, “I believe I am here by appointment with Mr. Rockham.”
“Yes,” replied Cornelius Rockham, rising, “pray be seated, sir. I have asked these gentlemen to be present, as you suggested.”
“Your time is valuable, no doubt,” said the man, taking the proffered chair, “and I will consume as little of it as possible. My name is Barker. I am a comparative stranger in this city, and by pure accident am enabled to make the proposition which I am going to make. Your child has been missing now for several days, I believe, without any clew whatever. I do not know who kidnapped it, nor any of the circumstances. It is now half-past ten o’clock. I do not know where it is at this time, and I could not now take you to it. At eleven o’clock to-night, I shall know where it is, and I shall be able to take you to it. But I need money, and I must have five thousand dollars to compensate me for the information.”
The man paused for a moment, and passed his hand across his forehead. “Now,” he went on, “to be perfectly plain. I will not trust you, and you, of course, will not trust me. In order to insure good faith on both sides, I must ask that you pay me the money here, in the presence of these witnesses, then handcuff me to a police officer, and I will take you to the child at eleven o’clock. You may surround me with all the guards you think proper, and take every precaution to insure your safety and prevent my escape. You will pardon my extreme frankness, but business is business, and we all know that matters of this kind must be arranged beforehand. Men are too indifferent after they get what they want.” Barker stopped short, and looked up frankly at the men around him.
Cornelius Rockham did not reply, but his white, haggard face lighted up hopefully. He beckoned to the Police Chief, and the two went into an adjoining room.
“What do you think?” said Rockham, turning to the officer.
“That man,” replied the Chief, “means what he says, or else he is an insane fool, and he certainly bears no indication of the latter. It is evident that he will not open his mouth until he gets the money, for the reason that he is afraid that he will be ignored after the child is recovered. I do not believe there is any risk in paying him now, and doing as he says; because he cannot possibly escape when fastened to a sergeant, and if he proves to be a fake, or tries any crooked work, we will return the money to you and lock him up.”
“I am inclined to agree with you,” replied Rockham; “the man is eccentric and suspicious, but he certainly will not move until paid, and we have no charge as yet upon which to arrest him. Nor would it avail us anything if we did. There is little if any risk, and much probability of learning something of the boy. I will do it.”
He went down to the far end of the hall and took a package of bills from a desk. Then the two men returned to the drawing-room.
“Sir,” said Rockham to Barker, “I accept your proposition, here is the money, but you must consider yourself utterly in our hands. I am willing to trust you, but I am going to follow your suggestion.”
“A contract is a contract,” replied Barker, taking the money and counting it carefully. When he had satisfied himself that the amount was correct he thrust the roll of bills into his outside coat-pocket.
“It is now fifteen minutes until eleven,” said the Police Chief, stepping up to Barker’s chair, “and if you are ready we will go.”
“I am ready,” said the man, getting up.
The Police Chief took a pair of steel handcuffs from his pocket, locked one part of them carefully on Barker’s left wrist and fastened the other to the right wrist of the sergeant. Then they went out of the house and down the steps to the carriages.
The Police Chief, Barker, and the sergeant climbed into the first carriage, and Mr. Rockham and the other officer into the second.
“Have your man drive to the Central Park entrance,” said Barker to the Chief. The officer called to the driver and the carriages rolled away. At the west entrance to Central Park the men alighted.
“Now, gentlemen,” said Barker, “we must walk west to the second corner and wait there until a cab passes from the east. The cab will be close curtained and will be drawn by a sorrel cob. As it passes you will dart out, seize the horse, and take possession of the cab. You will find the child in the cab, but I must insist for my own welfare, that you make every appearance of having me under arrest and in close custody.”
The five men turned down the street in the direction indicated. Mr. Rockham and one of the officers in the front and the other two following with Barker between them. For a time they walked along in silence. Then the Police Chief took some cigars from his pocket, gave one to the sergeant, and offering them to Barker said, “Will you smoke, sir?”
“Not a cigar, I thank you,” replied the man, “but if you will permit me I will light my pipe.” The two men stopped. Barker took a short pipe and a pouch of tobacco from his pocket, filled the pipe and lighted it; as he was about to return the pouch to his coat pocket, an old apple-woman, hobbling past, caught the odor and stopped.
“Fur de love of Hivin, Mister,” she drawled, “give me a pipe uv yer terbaccy?” Barker laughed, tossed her the pouch, and the three hurried on.
At the corner indicated the men stopped. The Police Chief examined the handcuffs carefully to see that they were all right; then they drew back in the shadow and waited for the cab. Eleven o’clock came and passed and the cab did not appear. Mr. Rockham paced the sidewalk nervously and the policemen gathered close around Barker.
At half-past eleven o’clock Barker straightened up, shrugged his shoulders, and turned to the Police Chief. “It is no use,” he said, “they are not here and they never will come now.”
“What!” cried the Police Chief savagely, “do you mean that we are fooled?”
“Yes,” said Barker, “all of us. It is no use I tell you, the thing is over.”
“It is not over with you, my man,” growled the Chief. “Here, sergeant, get Mr. Rockham his money and let us lock this fellow up.”
The sergeant turned and thrust his hand into Barker’s outside coat-pocket, then his chin dropped and he turned white. “It is gone!” he muttered.
“Gone!” shouted Rockham; “search the rascal!”
The sergeant began to go carefully over the man. Suddenly he stopped. “Chief,” he muttered, “it was in that tobacco pouch.”
The Police Chief staggered back and spun round on his heel. “Angels of Hell!” he gasped, “it was a cute trick, and it threw us all, every one of us.”
Rockham bounded forward and brought his hand down heavily on Barker’s shoulder. “As for you, my fine fellow,” he said, bitterly, “we have you all right and we will land you in Sing Sing.”
Barker was silent. In the dark the men could not see that he was smiling.
III.
The court-room of Judge Walter P. Wright was filled with an interested audience of the greater and unpunished criminals of New York. The application of Barker for a habeas corpus, on the ground that he had committed no crime, had attracted wide attention. It was known that the facts were not disputed, and the proceeding was a matter of wonder.
Some days before, the case had been submitted to the learned judge. The attorneys for the People had not been anxious enough to be interested, and looked upon the application as a farce. The young man who appeared for Barker announced that he represented one Randolph Mason, a counsellor, and was present only for the purpose of asking that Barker be discharged, and for the further purpose of filing the brief of Mason in support of the application. He made no argument whatever, and had simply handed up the brief, which the attorneys for the People had not thought it worth their while to examine.
Barker sat in the dock, grim and confident. The attorneys for the commonwealth were listless. The audience was silent and attentive. It was a vital matter to them. If Barker had committed no crime, what a rich, untramped field was open. The Judge laid his hand upon the books piled up beside him and looked down at the bar.
“This proceeding,” he began, “is upon the application of one Lemuel Barker for a writ of habeas corpus, asking that he be discharged from custody, upon the ground that he has committed no crime punishable at common law or under the statutes of New York. An agreed state of facts has been submitted, upon which he stands charged by the commonwealth with having obtained five thousand dollars from one Cornelius Rockham by false pretences. The facts are, briefly, that on the 17th day of December Barker called at the residence of Rockham and said that he desired to make a proposition looking to the recovery of the lost child of said Rockham, but he desired to make it in the presence of witnesses, and would return at ten o’clock that night. Pursuant to his appointment, Barker again presented himself at the residence of said Rockham, and, in the presence of witnesses, declared, in substance, that at that time (then ten o’clock) he knew nothing of the said child, could not produce it, and could give no information in regard to it, but that at eleven o’clock he would know where the child was and would produce it; and that, if the said Rockham would then and there pay him five thousand dollars, he would at eleven o’clock take them to the lost child. The money was paid and the transaction completed.
“At eleven o’clock, Barker took the men to a certain corner in the upper part of this city, and it there developed that the entire matter was a scheme on his part for the purpose of obtaining the said sum of money, which he had in some manner disposed of; and that he in fact knew nothing of the child and never intended to produce it.
“The attorneys for the People considered it idle to discuss what they believed to be such a plain case of obtaining money under false pretences; and I confess that upon first hearing I was inclined to believe the proceeding a useless imposition upon the judiciary. I have had occasion to change my opinion.”
The attorneys present looked at each other with wonder and drew their chairs closer to the table. The audience moved anxiously.
“The prisoner,” continued the Judge, “has filed in his behalf the remarkable brief of one Randolph Mason, a counsellor. This I have read, first, with curiosity, then interest, then wonder, and, finally, conviction. In it the crime sought to be charged is traced from the days of the West Saxon Wights up to the present, beginning with the most ancient cases and ending with the later decisions of our own Court of Appeals. I have gone over these cases with great care, and find that the vital element of this crime is, and has ever been, the false and fraudulent representation or statement as to an existing or past fact. Hence, no representation, however false, in regard to a future transaction can be a crime. Nor can a false statement, promissory in its nature, be the subject of a criminal charge.
“To constitute this crime there must always be a false representation or statement as to a fact, and that fact must be a past or an existing fact. These are plain statements of ancient and well settled law, and laid here in this brief, almost in the exact language of our courts.
“In this case the vital element of crime is wanting. The evidence fails utterly to show false representation as to any existing fact. The prisoner, Barker, at the time of the transaction, positively disclaimed any knowledge of the child, or any ability to produce it. What he did represent was that he would know, and that he would perform certain things, in the future. The question of remoteness is irrelevant. It is immaterial whether the future time be removed minutes or years.
“The false representation complained of was wholly in regard to a future transaction, and essentially promissory in its nature, and such a wrong is not, and never has been, held to be the foundation of a criminal charge.”
“But, if your Honor please,” said the senior counsel for the People, rising, “is it not clearly evident that the prisoner, Barker, began with a design to defraud; that that design was present and obtained at the time of this transaction; that a representation was made to Rockham for the purpose of convincing him that there then existed a bona fide intention to produce his child; that money was obtained by false statements in regard to this intention then existing, when in fact such intention did not exist and never existed, and statements made to induce Rockham to believe that it did exist were all utterly false, fraudulent, and delusive? Surely this is a crime.”
The attorney sat down with the air of one who had propounded an unanswerable proposition. The Judge adjusted his eyeglasses and began to turn the pages of a report. “I read,” he said, “from the syllabus of the case of The People of New York vs. John H. Blanchard. ‘An indictment for false pretences may not be founded upon an assertion of an existing intention, although it did not in fact exist. There must be a false representation as to an existing fact.’
“Your statement, sir, in regard to intention, in this case is true, but it is no element of crime.”
“But, sir,” interposed the counsel for the People, now fully awake to the fact that Barker was slipping from his grasp, “I ask to hold this man for conspiracy and as a violator of the Statute of Cheats.”
“Sir,” said the Judge, with some show of impatience, “I call your attention to Scott’s case and the leading case of Ranney. In the former, the learned Court announces that if the false and fraudulent representations are not criminal there can be no conspiracy; and, in the latter, the Court says plainly that false pretences in former statutes, and gross fraud or cheat in the more recent acts, mean essentially the same thing.
“You must further well know that this man could not be indicted at common law for cheat, because no false token was used, and because in respect to the instrumentality by which it was accomplished it had no special reference to the public interest.
“This case is most remarkable in that it bears all the marks of a gross and detestable fraud, and in morals is a vicious and grievous wrong, but under our law it is no crime and the offender cannot be punished.”
“I understand your Honor to hold,” said the baffled attorney, jumping to his feet, “that this man is guilty of no crime; that the dastardly act which he confesses to have done constitutes no crime, and that he is to go out of this court-room freed from every description of liability or responsibility to any criminal tribunal; that the law is so defective and its arm so short that it cannot pluck forth the offender and punish him when by every instinct of morality he is a criminal. If this be true, what a limitless field is open to the knave, and what a snug harbor for him is the great commonwealth of New York!”
“I can pardon your abruptness,” said the Judge, looking down upon the angry and excited counsellor, “for the reason that your words are almost exactly the lament of presiding Justice Mullin in the case of Scott. But, sir, this is not a matter of sentiment; it is not a matter of morality; it is not even a matter of right. It is purely and simply a matter of law, and there is no law.”
The Judge unconsciously arose and stood upright beside the bench. The audience of criminals bent forward in their seats.
“I feel,” he continued, “for the first time the utter inability of the law to cope with the gigantic cunning of Evil. I appreciate the utter villainy that pervaded this entire transaction. I am convinced that it was planned with painstaking care by some master mind moved by Satanic impulse. I now know that there is abroad in this city a malicious intelligence of almost infinite genius, against which the machinery of the law is inoperative. Against every sentiment of common right, of common justice, I am compelled to decide that Lemuel Barker is guilty of no crime and stands acquit.”
It was high noon. The audience of criminals passed out from the temple of so-called Justice, and with them went Lemuel Barker, unwhipped and brazen; now with ample means by which to wrest his fellows in villainy from the righteous wrath of the commonwealth. They were all enemies of this same commonwealth, bitter, never wearying enemies, and to-day they had learned much. How short-armed the Law was! Wondrous marvel that they had not known it sooner! To be sure they must plan so cunningly that only the Judge should pass upon them. He was a mere legal machine.
He was only the hand applying the rigid rule of the law. The danger was with the jury; there lay the peril to be avoided. The jury! how they hated it and feared it! and of right, for none knew better than they that whenever, and where-ever, and however men stop to probe for it, they always find, far down in the human heart, a great love of common right and fair dealing that is as deep-seated and abiding as the very springs of life.