II
RECLAMATION WORK
At one time wives and families of men who were serving their sentences in prison frequently suffered great privation. In sheer desperation they would often be themselves driven to dishonest courses to procure the bare means of existence, and in this way the punishment of crime was in reality the cause of its multiplication. To a lesser extent this evil still prevails, though I should be doing less than justice did I not mention the splendid efforts of several organisations, and notably of the Church Army, to deal with it. I sometimes did what I could in this direction myself.
When Alfred Gimbrell, a criminal of feeble type and low intelligence, got what he termed a tray of moons, he had a message conveyed to me that he would take it very kind if I would keep an eye on the missus and the kids. He had a large family, and was an affectionate husband and father. I provided them with a small sum of money for their immediate necessities, and set about finding work for the woman. In this I had no difficulty. It was in the height of the London season, and many firms were giving temporary employment to extra hands. Moreover, Mrs Gimbrell was a really clever woman with her needle. I told the plain facts of the case to Messrs Pawling & Ramsworthy of Oxford Street, and they agreed to take her on if I would guarantee the value of the materials entrusted to her. To this I at once consented; I have done the same thing in several cases, and I have never lost a penny by it. Five of the children were at school, the eldest girl helped her mother, and the eldest boy sold newspapers. From time to time, when I was in the neighbourhood, I looked in to see how they were getting on. To my mind they seemed to be doing better without Alfred than with him.
Mrs Gimbrell was touchingly grateful
"If ever Alf goes crooked again," she said, "after all you've done, Mr Dix, he ought to be took out and shot, though it's his own wife that says it."
"Ah, Mrs Gimbrell," I said, "why did you not use your influence to check him before he got into this trouble. Time after time you must have known that the money he brought in was not made honestly."
"Well, what was I to do? After all, its for 'im to look after me; it's not for me to look after 'im. It's not for a married woman to set and slave while the man spends the money. He ain't bad many ways. He don't drink—leastways not like some. And fond of 'is children? O not 'arf! Why, he'd cut 'is 'and off at the root for 'em. But then it seems like as if he couldn't work. He's one of them that gets soon tired—that's where it is, and the money 'ad got to come from somewhere."
"And now you see where it leads to."
"Yes, we'll 'ave a change now. That I'm determined on. If you could only speak to him! He's out Saturday morning, and then it's just the few weeks before we all goes down to the hop-picking. That always suits him—looks a better man every time when he comes back. If he'd keep straight for them few weeks there might be a chance."
"I will do what I can. On Sunday afternoon I shall be giving a short address in Hyde Park. Bring him to hear me and I will see that what I say is specially suited to his case. Yes, I know that it's a long way, but the walk will do you both good. And when the address is over I will have a few words with him privately."
She thanked me again and I left.
I had been on the verge of telling her to send him up to my house in Lanyon Street, Bloomsbury, on Saturday night. But I remembered that Saturday would be the first of August, and I had already arranged for my evening on the first of August.
I proceed with some regret to tell what my arrangements were. I know very well that if these memoirs are ever published, I shall be then far beyond the reach of men's contempt. But I seem already to feel the sting of that word Hypocrite, though it has never at this moment of writing been applied to me. The finest temperance sermon I ever heard was preached by a clergyman who was, as was discovered subsequently, himself a dipsomaniac. I knew the man, and he was no hypocrite. I am as convinced of my ability to reclaim others as of the utter hopelessness of any attempt to reclaim myself I am a good preacher, but I am a very good thief. Theft happens to be the thing that I do best. I have studied it, and I am fond of it. It gives me a great satisfaction to note the blunders that lead less intelligent criminals to their destruction, and the way in which I avoid those blunders. Again, though I have a house at a fairly high rental in Bloomsbury, and a smaller house at Brighton, and paid close on five hundred pounds for my motor-car, and live very comfortably, a certain portion of my income is set aside for my work among the criminals and the suffering of the East End of London.
On the first of July—one month before—I happened to be in the bank in the afternoon, and after finishing my business I was chatting about the political situation with the cashier, to whom I am well known. I am well known as a philanthropist to quite a number of respectable people. The manager of Messrs Pawling & Ramsworthy always has a tolerant smile for me when I tell him of any of my cases, and will help me if he can do so without risk to himself. I am sure the last time that Ikey got into trouble Inspector Measor was almost apologetic about it, though at the same time he told me that he was afraid I should find Ikey a hopeless case. I am known as a thief to myself alone. As the cashier was talking, a little old woman stepped up to the counter and I stood aside for her. She was dressed very neatly in a by-gone fashion, and gave one the idea of a particular and prim person. As soon as the cashier saw her he produced a canvas bag, and as she handed in her cheque, pushed the bag across to her.
"Thank you, sir. I wish you good afternoon," she said. She put the money in a locked leather bag she was carrying, and went out. I saw the cheque upside-down for the fraction of a second, as the cashier took it to his desk (out of sight) to obliterate the signature. It was a cheque for fifty pounds, payable to order, but the word 'bearer' had been substituted and initiated. It was signed Hannah Gosforth in a small and particularly neat hand-writing.
"You had it all ready for her," I said. "How did you know what she wanted?"
"It's the same on the first of every month—or the second if the first happens to be a Sunday. Has banked here for the last thirty years, though she lives at Surbiton; and unless she's ill or away on a holiday she always comes herself for it Never counts it either—says that if she thought I were dishonest or couldn't count, she'd bank somewhere else. Queer customer."
There is a type of woman that always gets an order cheque-book for safety, and always alters "order" to "bearer" for convenience. She carries fifty pounds in gold through a crowded thoroughfare in a silly hand-bag at the time when a man of observation might be expecting her, and thinks herself secure because the bag has a penny-farthing lock on it. I know that type. I know the kind of cash-box which it uses and trusts. I know its reading-lamp, its lavender sachets, and its bright keys, and its religious observances. There was a time (back in my boyhood) when I knew some of its charm; and I know now all its futility.
Fifty pounds is not a large sum perhaps to a rich man. But I felt that it would be worth my while to take it, especially as the trouble attending it promised to be v6ry slight. I could not go to Surbiton that day, as I had promised to attend a meeting in Clerkenwell in the evening; besides I should have an equally good opportunity in a month's time. I was anxious to make my visit on the first of the month, because it struck me that a woman who always drew fifty on the first, would be extremely likely to pay the house-books of the previous month on the second, and her domestic servants on the third.
The first of August was a Saturday, and therefore the second was a Sunday—a day on which I felt assured that Miss Hannah Gosforth would neither make nor receive payments. Why then did I not postpone my visit to the Sunday? Simply because I happen to share Miss Gosforth's views as to the observance of Sunday. I give up the whole of Sunday to what I think to be the higher branch of my work, and frequently I have given as many as six addresses in the one day. I should not dream of making money on Sunday. And I have a conviction—the infidel will call it stupid fatalism—that if I ever break my rule the last calamity will follow.
So on a Saturday afternoon I put a packet of sandwiches in one side-pocket of the jacket of a blue serge suit, and a flask of cold weak tea, flavoured with lemon, in the other side-pocket. I have no objection to drinking intoxicating liquors when I wish to become intoxicated, as from time to time occurs, but for ordinary drinking I have found cold tea to be the most useful. It should be very weak—strong tea affects the nerves, and my nerves are important—and the flavour of lemon blends pleasantly. In the breast-pocket of the same jacket I carried a letter to Miss Hannah Gosforth. Inside was the circular of a new and pushing boot-making company which had been left in my own letter-box that morning. On the envelope was a particularly illegible address, written by myself. I have no false modesty about it. In these memoirs I state facts only, and you can draw your own conclusions. It is a fact that I am a master in the art of writing partially illegible addresses. You could just make out the name of Miss Gosforth, and you could decipher the word "street." The word Surbition was written in a larger hand and was clear enough for anybody. But the number and name of the street were quite illegible. With this I had very little doubt that I should be able to discover Miss Gosforth's place of residence. When I arrived at Surbiton I went into the first shop of any importance that I came across and showed the letter. "A friend," I said, "asked me to deliver this while I was in Surbiton, and I can't make head or tail of the address. It's for a Miss Gosforth. I wonder if you could help me?"
The man to whom I was speaking had approached with the usual obsequious smile. He now looked distinctly sulky.
"No," he said, "I can't help you. Miss Gosforth don't deal here."
It was clear to me that Miss Gosforth had at one time dealt there, and had subsequently transferred her custom; also that the man knew her address perfectly well and had not the remotest intention of giving it; so I thanked him and went out. I then tried a postman with the same story.
"Yes," he said, "I know Miss Hannah Gosforth well enough, but that address is wrong. It's not a street, it's a road—Marley Road. Ivy Cottage, Marley Road, that's where she lives, and it's pretty well the last house."
I gave the man a shilling, and a few minutes later was ringing the bell at Ivy Cottage. I handed my letter to the servant and went off. I had thus made my observations of the place under circumstances unlikely to cause suspicion.
Ivy Cottage was a small detached house with a scrap of garden between it and the road, and a larger garden behind. I had seen through the window the old lady's methodical writing-table. It was of the kind known as an Oxford table, and I had very little doubt that she kept her useless cash box in one of the bottom drawers of that table, locked it with an equally useless key, and slept with a conviction that she had done all that a mortal woman could do to defend her property, and might leave the rest to Providence. Any of the windows on the ground floor could be opened with ease, but to prevent observation from the road I decided to take one of the windows at the back.
I wandered away into the country, finished my sandwiches and tea, and made notes for my addresses on the following day. It was a beautifully warm and peaceful evening, with that strange calm in it that I have often noticed in the country on the eve of Sunday, as though Nature like man, now prepared for a while to rest.
I was back at Ivy Cottage by half-past ten. By that time I felt certain that the old lady and her household would be in bed and asleep, and I knew that I could do what I had to do quietly and very quickly.
In the garden behind the house I found a man standing with his back to me, spreading with some care a sheet of brown paper with treacle.
I do not mean that under the doubtful light of the stars I could detect that the paper was brown, or that it was treacle that was being used. That was a matter of conjecture. But I saw enough to be sure that here was a man on the point of effecting a burglarious entrance into Miss Gosforth's house. The treacle-spread sheet of stiff paper is applied to a pane of the window, and the glass can then generally be broken and removed without noise. The broken pieces adhere to the paper. The man gets his arm through the hole, feels for any electric alarm wires and cuts them, and then puts back the catch and opens the window. I have used this old trick myself, but I seldom employ it now. The treacle must be of just the right consistency, and the whole thing must be managed with great skill, or the trick fails and a noise is made which awakes the people in the house. It is not certain enough for me.
Intentionally, I took a step on the gravel. It was enough. The man turned sharply, saw, me, and then dropped his bottle and the paper, and made a bolt for the road. I ran after him.
Twenty yards down the road I had almost overhauled my man, when he turned sharp round and his hand went to his side-pocket.
"Stop that, Alfred Gimbrell," I said. "Do you want to kill the man who saved your wife and children?"
He had not recognised me, though I had never had any doubt about him. He used the extremely filthy and blasphemous expression which was habitual with him when he wished to indicate great surprise and astonishment, and then he pulled out his revolver and handed it to me.
"There yer are," he said. "Put my lights out. I deserve it."
"You are talking foolishly, Gimbrell," I said. "I shall take this weapon because you are not to be trusted with it. But it was not to kill you that I came to Surbiton to-night. It was to save you from the consequences of your own folly and wickedness."
"I suppose, Mr Dix, it's no good astin' you how you knew I was on this lay?"
I answered him with another question. "Where did you buy this revolver?" I had noticed that it was new and had not been used.
He thought it over for a moment. "I see," he said. "And so you followed me on from there. Why, you'd make a 'tec'. I never knew you was near me. O blast it! what's the good?"
"Don't swear, Gimbrell. Bad language, as I have told you before, is something worse than useless. Come along quietly with me and tell me how you come to be doing this when you have only been for a few hours out of prison?"
We walked away from the town and he talked as we went.
"If you arst me how I knew of it, I had it from a friend, who got it from a pal of his that knows the servant. My friend was to have took half what I got."
"Ah, Gimbrell, that was no true friend."
"And so I told him myself. Two quid I wouldn't have stuck at. But what right had he got to half, with me taking all the risks?"
"No true friend would have tempted you back to your old way of life at all; I tell you, Gimbrell, you'll have to quit it."
"That's what I was wanting to do. But yer see how it was. I come 'ome and finds the missus very 'aughty and teachin' of my own kids to look on me as if I was a leper. I know she had some money, but there wasn't so much as the price of a pot for me. I could go out and see if I couldn't find a job of work, she said. Nice words those are to use to any man! Then I come on my friend and he got talking. You see, you must have a bit of something in your pocket to be going on with while you're looking for some suitable occupation. This was to have been the last time. And it was a soft thing—fifty golden sovereigns and all as easy as telling lies. Mind you I wasn't going to be took again. I'd have outed the copper and myself too. I wouldn't go till my friend gave me the money to get this revolver. And that's the kind of man as my missus turns on and says, 'O cawn't you go and get yerself a job of work?' Just like that! And I assure you, Mr Dix, that's a woman I've never so much as raised my 'and against. What I warnt to know is if I'm expected to stand such treatment as that, while"
"Never mind that. Your wife has worked hard and well to keep the home together while you were in prison. You should try to win back her respect."
"She'd have respected me fast enough if I'd come 'ome to-night with them quids in my pocket."
"There you are mistaken. While you have been away she has learned to look at things very differently."
"So she told me—going on as if I wasn't good enough for her."
His wife had evidently been very tactless. In many ways I felt sorry for the man. I determined to see if I could not break through his miserable conceit and his utter recklessness, and touch his heart. With the utmost fervour and sincerity I threw myself into the work. I spoke to him of his children. I said much which need not be repeated here. And in the end I succeeded. I had the man weeping and penitent, and I had his most solemn promise that he would lead a new life in the future. Then I gave him a few shillings to pay his fare back and get himself some supper, and sent him off.
In Gimbrell's flight from the house and my pursuit of him a certain amount of noise must have been made. It would not have surprised me if I had found the house lit up. But it was all in darkness, and not a sound was to be heard. I went round to the back and found the sheet of brown paper and the bottle that Gimbrell had dropped. I had not intended to use anything of the kind, but as it was there and all ready prepared I fitted the sheet to a pane of glass. It worked very well.
I met with no incidents of interest while I was in the house. I was there for only a few moments. The cash-box was not in the drawers of the table, but in a little locked cupboard in the sideboard. It was much as I expected. It had a triple lock, and looked very substantial. The bottom of it was a separate piece fastened in with four screws. It was made in Germany, and if these lines should ever come to the eye of its maker, I hope that he will let me take this opportunity of saying that I am obliged to him. It contained £50, 6s. 3d. It was less than I had expected. But I think I made up the difference with a pair of salt-cellars, genuine Queen Anne, and very interesting. I intended these for my own use. I left Gimbrell's revolver behind me. I never carry anything of that kind. The police were very pleased at finding it, but they did not succeed in tracing the purchaser of it.
Gimbrell, who heard of the old lady's loss, was much impressed with the coincidences that the case presented. "Why," he said, "If I'd only gone a bit later, and you hadn't been following me, that other bloke and me might have met in the 'ouse. It would 'ave made me angry, but I couldn't have helped laughing."