The XYZ Murders, page 89
The old gentleman nodded.
“You’re sure? It’s not pleasant, you know. And Scalzi’s not the sort of man who meets death with a grin.”
“It would be an experience,” said Drury Lane.
“So it would,” replied the warden dryly. “All right, if you want to. The law provides that the warden send invitations to ‘twelve reputable citizens of full age’—naturally, civilians unattached in any way to the prison—to witness an execution. I’ll include you, if you’re positive you won’t mind the experience. And it is an experience, take my word for it.”
“It’s dreadful,” said Father Muir uneasily. “God knows how many I’ve been compelled to attend, and yet I can never accustom myself to the—to the inhumanity of the thing.”
Magnus shrugged. “Most of us get the same reaction. Sometimes I wonder if I really believe in capital punishment after all. When you get right down to it, it’s hard to be responsible for the taking of even a vicious human life.”
“But you’re not,” pointed out the old gentleman. “The responsibility, in the final analysis, is the state’s.”
“But I have to give the signal, and the executioner has to throw the switch. It makes a lot of difference. I knew a Governor once who used to run away from the Executive Mansion on the night of an execution. Couldn’t stand the gaff.… All right, Mr. Lane, I’ll arrange it.”
That was how it came about that on the Wednesday evening of my exciting visit to Dr. Fawcett’s, Mr. Lane and Father Muir were inside the great stone walls. Father Muir had been away all day, busy with the condemned man; and Mr. Lane was admitted, alone, to the prison yard at a few minutes before eleven and escorted at once by a keeper to the condemned cells, or death-house. It was a long low-slung structure far off in a corner of the quadrangle, almost a prison within a prison. His senses excited by the strange and morbid air of the building, the old gentleman found himself eventually in the death-chamber itself, a drab bare room furnished with two long pew-like benches and … the electric chair.
It was natural for him to rivet his attention at once on that squat, hard, angular, ugly weapon of death. To his surprise he found it rather smaller than he had anticipated, and not nearly so formidable as he had imagined. Empty leather straps hung limply from the back, arms, and legs of the Chair; a curious arrangement above the back suggested nothing so much as the headgear of a metal football player. It was all very innocent and, at the moment, too bizarre to seem real.
He looked around; he was sitting on one of the hard benches, and all of his eleven co-witnesses were already seated. They were men of maturity, all fidgety, all pale; no one spoke. To his astonishment he recognized, among those on the second bench, the rubicund figure of Rufus Cotton; the little old politician was waxy-white, staring steadily ahead at the Chair with his remarkable eyes slightly glazed. A trifle disturbed, Drury Lane sat back and looked around.
At one side of the room there was a small door; it led, as he knew, to the mortuary. The state, he reflected, took no chances on the resuscitation of its victims; immediately after the doctors pronounced the condemned man legally dead, his carcass was carted off to the next room, where an autopsy effectually destroyed whatever spark of life might miraculously have remained.
There was another door facing the benches: a small dull-green door studded with iron nails; and this, he knew, led to the corridor down which the victim tottered on his last journey on earth.
This door now opened and a group of set-faced men marched in, their feet raising echoes from impact with the hard floor. Two were carrying black bags—physicians of the prison, required by law to attend all executions and pronounce the condemned dead; three were quietly dressed individuals who Drury Lane later discovered were court officials, required to be present in order to see that sentence of death was duly executed, as prescribed by law; and three of the group were prison keepers—blue-clad, grim-faced men.… And then for the first time the old gentleman noted that there was an alcove in one corner of the room in which stood a man of burly build, past middle age. This man was tinkering with some electrical apparatus in the recess. His face was without expression: heavy, dull, almost stupid. The executioner! From this instant a shocking realization of the scene and its cruelly ultimate meaning struck home to Drury Lane, and the muscles of his throat contracted so that he could scarcely breathe. The room was no longer unreal; it took on evil, and it throbbed with sinister life.
In a little blur he consulted his watch; it was six minutes past eleven o’clock.
Almost at once everyone stiffened, and the room became deathly, ponderably still. From beyond the green door came a shuffling, a steady rapid shuffling that rasped their nerves until to a man they gripped the edge of the benches and leaned forward with the tautness of springs. And with the shuffling came spine-prickling sounds: a slow murmuring, a hoarse murmurous wailing, and above it, like the eerie howl of the banshee, the dim animal shouts of the living dead who lined that corridor of death outside; watching, watching their companion take the long last mile in shambling steps, reluctant steps, steps shrinking from the pathway to eternity.
Nearer. Then the door swung soundlessly open, and they saw.…
Warden Magnus, cold and gray of face; Father Muir, bent, shrunken, half-fainting as his lips mumbled the prayer they had heard from the corridor; and the complement of four keepers. The quota was now full; the door swung shut.… For a moment the central figure was smothered; and he stood out so nakedly that the others faded away like wraiths.
A tall bony man, emaciated, with a swarthy pock-marked and predacious face; he was bent slightly at the knees, and his armpits were supported by two of the keepers. Between his slate-gray lips dangled a smoldering cigarette. On his feet were soft slippers. His right trouser hung loose; it had been slit from cuff to knee. His hair was clipped; he had not been shaved.… He saw nothing at all; he stared through the men on the benches with crystalline eyes that were already dead. They manipulated him like a puppet: a jerk, a gentle shove, a low-voiced order.…
Incredibly, he was seated in the electric chair, head sunken on his breast, the cigarette still smoking between his lips. Four of the seven keepers jumped forward with the precision of oiled robots; there was no lost motion, no wasted time. One of them knelt before the dying man and quickly adjusted the straps to his legs. A second pinioned his arms to the arms of the chair. A third passed the heavy body-strap around the man’s torso. And the fourth whipped out a dull cloth and bound it tightly around the man’s eyes. Then, wooden-faced, they rose and stepped back.
The executioner glided out of his cubicle on noiseless feet. No one said a word. He knelt before the condemned man, and his long-fingered hands began to adjust something to the condemned man’s right leg. When the executioner stood up, Drury Lane saw that he had clamped an electrode around the back of the chair; he adjusted the metal cap to the man’s clipped head with the polished ease of long practice. He worked in silence, swiftly, and when he had finished, Scalzi sat like statuary on the brink of the Abyss, waiting, teetering.
The executioner ran back to his alcove on rubber-shod feet.
Warden Magnus stood silently by, watch in hand.
Father Muir leaned against a keeper and made the sign of the cross, his old lips barely moving.
For that instant time stood still. And in that instant, perhaps aroused by the beating of wings, Scalzi quivered, and out of his gray lips fell the smoldering cigarette as a strangled moan slithered from wall to wall of that sound-proof room and died away like the death-call of a lost soul.
The warden’s right arm flashed up, and down, in a heavy arc.
And from where he sat Drury Lane, stifled by emotions he could not analyze, smothered, heart beating wildly, breath coming in hoarse gasps, saw the blue-swathed left arm of the executioner slam down a switch into its socket on the wall of the alcove.
For a moment he thought that the vibration which made his breast tingle like a message from the fourth dimension was caused by his own pounding heart; and then he knew it was not, that his prickling skin was the answer to the cries of electricity liberated from its cells and surging through full leaping wires.
The brilliant light in the death-chamber dimmed.
And the man in the chair, simultaneous with the throwing of the switch, surged upward as if he meant by sheer strength to snap the leather straps by which he was pinned down. Lazily, a grayish wisp of smoke curled out from beneath the metal helmet. The hands gripped the arms of the chair, turning red slowly, and as slowly turning white. The cords of the neck stood out like tarred ropes, livid in their naked ugliness.
Scalzi sat siffly now, like a man at attention.
The lights grew bright again.
The two physicians stepped forward and, one by one, applied their stethoscopes to the bared breast of the man in the Chair. Then they stepped back, looked at each other, and the elder—a white-haired man with expressionless eyes—silently gave a signal.
Again the left arm of the executioner fell. Again the lights dimmed.…
And when the physician stepped back after the second examination, the elder said in a low voice, intoning the doom required by law: “Warden, I pronounce this man dead.”
The body sagged, relaxed, against the chair.
Nobody stirred a hand’s-breath. The door to the combination mortuary and autopsy-room next door opened, and a white table was wheeled in.
Mechanically, then, Drury Lane consulted his watch. It was ten minutes past eleven.
And Scalzi was dead.
14. THE SECOND SECTION
Jeremy got up and began to walk around the room. Father Muir sat in a sort of stupor, quietly; he had heard nothing, I felt sure, for his eyes were fixed on an intangible far beyond the range of our vision.
Mr. Drury Lane blinked, and said slowly: “How do you know, Patience, that Dr. Fawcett has received another section of chest?”
So I recounted the story of my adventure that evening.
“How clearly did you see it on Dr. Fawcett’s desk?”
“It was in my direct line of vision, not fifteen feet away.”
“Did it look the same as the piece we found on Senator Fawcett’s desk?”
“No, I’m sure it didn’t. It was open at both sides.”
“Ha! The middle section, then,” he muttered. “Did you see if there were letters on its face, my dear, comparable to the HE on Senator Fawcett’s section?”
“I do seem to recall seeing lettering of some sort on the face, Mr. Lane, but I was too far away to make it out.”
“Too bad.” He mused, his old body quiet. Then he leaned forward and patted my shoulder. “A good night’s work, my dear. I can’t see it clearly as yet.… Suppose you let Mr. Clay drive you home now. You’ve had a wretched experience.…”
Our eyes met. Father Muir from his chair uttered a little groan, and his lips trembled. Jeremy was staring out the window.
“You think—” I began slowly.
He smiled faintly. “Always, my dear. Now good night, and don’t worry.”
15. ESCAPE!!
The following day was Thursday, and it was a bright sapful day which promised to be very warm. Father togged himself out in a new linen suit that I had insisted on buying him in Leeds, and very smart he looked, too, although he grumbled about, said something to the effect that he was not a “lily”—whatever that meant—and for a full half-hour refused to budge from the Clay house for fear someone he knew might see him.
The little details of that day—perhaps the most eventful, except one, that we were destined to spend in Leeds—stand out with photographic clarity. I remember that I had purchased a heavenly orange tie for father, which anyone with a proper appreciation of color-values would know was just the correct combination with the linen suit; I had to adjust the knot myself, and all the while he muttered and mumbled and had a most unhappy time. One would have imagined he had committed a crime, or that the effective ensemble he was wearing was a prison uniform. Poor father! A hopeless conservative, and it gave me inordinate pleasure to make him look nice—a labor of love which, I fear, he did not wholly appreciate.
It was almost noon when we decided to take the walk. Or rather, when I decided.
“Let’s stroll up the hill,” I suggested.
“In this blasted outfit?”
“Of course!”
“Not me. I won’t go.”
“Oh, come on,” I said. “Don’t be an old poke. It’s a gorgeous day.”
“Not to me, it isn’t,” growled father. “Besides, I—I guess I don’t feel well. Rheumatiz in my left leg.”
“In this mountain air? Bosh! We’ll call on Mr. Lane. And you’ll be able to show off your nice new suit.”
So we strolled, and I plucked a handful of wildflowers on the road, and father lost his self-consciousness, and for a time he was almost gay.
We found the old gentleman buried in a book on the porch of Father Muir’s, and—wonder of wonders!—he was dressed in a linen suit and sported an orange tie!
They stared at each other like two aged Beau Brummels, and then father looked sheepish and Mr. Lane chuckled.
“A veritable fashion-plate, Inspector. The Patience influence, I see. By thunder, you’ve needed a daughter, Thumm!”
“I was beginning to get over it,” muttered father. Then he brightened. “Well, at least I’ve got company.”
Father Muir came out of the house and greeted us warmly—he was still pale and subdued from the previous night’s experience—and we all sat down. The helpful Mrs. Crossett appeared with a tray of iced drinks, in which alcohol was conspicuously absent. As the old men talked, I watched the cloud-speckled sky and tried to avoid looking at the tall gray walls of Algonquin Prison so near the house. It was hot summer here, but within those walls it would never be anything but the dreariest winter. I wondered what Aaron Dow was doing.
Time passed on quiet feet, and I sat and rocked myself in a Nirvana of selflessness, lost in contemplation of the beautiful sky. Gradually my thoughts worked around to the incidents of the previous night. That second section of chest—what did it portend? That it had meant something to Dr. Ira Fawcett had been hideously plain: the fierce expression on his face was the result of knowledge, not of fear of the unknown. And how had it got to him? And who had sent it? … I sat up straight, alarmed. Had it been sent by Aaron Dow?
I sank back, deeply troubled. This put a different construction on the facts. The first section of chest had been sent by the convict—he had confessed as much—and by inference he himself had made it in the prison carpentry shop. Had he made a second one and by some devious underground prison channel sent it to a second victim? By this time I was frantic, and my heart pounded like a trip-hammer. But it was preposterous. Aaron Dow had not killed Senator Fawcett.… I became dizzy.
At a little past twelve-thirty our attention was called sharply to the prison gates. A moment before everything had been as usual—armed guards slowly pacing the top of the broad walls, the ugly sentry-boxes silent and seemingly lifeless until one saw the dully gleaming muzzles of guns protruding. And now there was a stir, an unmistakable bustle of unusual activity.
We all sat up, the three men stopped talking, and we watched.
The huge steel gates swung inward, and a blue-clad keeper appeared, armed with a pistol-holster and a rifle. Then he stepped backward, his broad shoulders to us, and shouted something we did not catch. A double-file of men appeared in the gateway. Prisoners.… They shuffled along in the dust of the road, each one carrying a pick or heavy shovel, heads held high, sniffing the soft air like eager dogs. They were dressed alike—heavy brogans on their feet, soft wrinkled gray trousers and coats, and coarse hickory shirts beneath. There were twenty men in the gang, and they were evidently bound for the other side of the hill, somewhere in the woods, to build or repair a road; at a roar from the keeper the leaders of the file executed a clumsy left turn which took the line gradually beyond our range. A second armed keeper marched at the rear, and the first stumped along to the right of the double-file, watchful and occasionally shouting an order. The twenty-two men disappeared.
We sat back, and Father Muir said dreamily: “This is Heaven to these men. It is hard work, back-breaking work, but as St. Jerome says: ‘Keep doing some kind of work, that the devil may always find you employed,’ and then it means being outdoors, away from the walls. The men love to go on road-gang duty.” And he sighed.
Exactly one hour and ten minutes later it happened.
Mrs. Crossett had served a snacky little luncheon, and we were just relaxing on the porch once more when, as before, something on the walls caught and fixed our attention and all conversation ceased.
One of the guards pacing the wall had stopped, frozen, and was peering intently into the yard below. He seemed to be listening to something. We stiffened in our chairs.
When it came, we all started convulsively and shrank a little. It was rude, raw, pitiless—a long piercing, shrieking, whining whistle which raised fierce echoes from the surrounding hills and died away like the moan of a dying devil. It was followed by another, and another, and another, until I held my ears and felt like screaming.
With the first blast Father Muir gripped the arms of his chair, paler than his collar.
“Big Ben,” he whispered.
We listened, petrified, to that satanic symphony. Then Mr. Lane said sharply: “A fire?”
“Prison break,” growled father, moistening his lips. “Patty, get into the house——”
Father Muir was staring at the walls. “No,” he said. “No. An escape.… Merciful Father!”
We jumped from our chairs with one accord and dashed down into the garden to lean on the rose-strewn wall. The walls of Algonquin themselves seemed to have stiffened in response to the alarm-siren. The keepers standing there strained every muscle, looked wildly from side to side, their guns raised—quivering, undecided, but ready for any emergency. And then the steel gates swung open again, and a powerful automobile crammed with men in blue, all armed with rifles, roared into the road, careened to the left on two wheels, and shot out of sight. It was followed by another, and another, until I counted five cars full of men, all armed to the teeth, all intent on something before them. I thought that in the first one I had noticed Warden Magnus sitting beside the chauffeur with his face white and set.
