The Lodger

The moment she passed though the great arched door which admits the stranger to that portion of New Scotland Yard where throbs the heart of that great organism which fights the forces of civilised crime, Daisy Bunting felt that she had indeed become free of the Kingdom of Romance. Even the lift in which the three of them were whirled up to one of the upper floors of the huge building was to the girl a new and delightful experience. Daisy had always lived a simple, quiet life in the little country town where dwelt Old Aunt and this was the first time a lift had come her way.

With a touch of personal pride in the vast building, Joe Chandler marched his friends down a wide, airy corridor.

Daisy clung to her father’s arm, a little bewildered, a little oppressed by her good fortune. Her happy young voice was stilled by the awe she felt at the wonderful place where she found herself, and by the glimpses she caught of great rooms full of busy, silent men engaged in unravelling—or so she supposed—the mysteries of crime.

They were passing a half-open door when Chandler suddenly stopped short. “Look in there,” he said, in a low voice, addressing the father rather than the daughter, “that’s the Finger-Print Room. We’ve records here of over two hundred thousand men’s and women’s finger-tips! I expect you know, Mr. Bunting, as how, once we’ve got the print of a man’s five finger-tips, well, he’s done for—if he ever does anything else, that is. Once we’ve got that bit of him registered he can’t never escape us—no, not if he tries ever so. But though there’s nigh on a quarter of a million records in there, yet it don’t take—well, not half an hour, for them to tell whether any particular man has ever been convicted before! Wonderful thought, ain’t it?”

“Wonderful!” said Bunting, drawing a deep breath. And then a troubled look came over his stolid face. “Wonderful, but also a very fearful thought for the poor wretches as has got their finger-prints in, Joe.”

Joe laughed. “Agreed!” he said. “And the cleverer ones knows that only too well. Why, not long ago, one man who knew his record was here safe, managed to slash about his fingers something awful, just so as to make a blurred impression—you takes my meaning? But there, at the end of six weeks the skin grew all right again, and in exactly the same little creases as before!”

“Poor devil!” said Bunting under his breath, and a cloud even came over Daisy’s bright eager face.

They were now going along a narrower passage, and then again they came to a half-open door, leading into a room far smaller than that of the Finger-Print Identification Room.

“If you’ll glance in there,” said Joe briefly, “you’ll see how we finds out all about any man whose finger-tips has given him away, so to speak. It’s here we keeps an account of what he’s done, his previous convictions, and so on. His finger-tips are where I told you, and his record in there—just connected by a number.”

“Wonderful!” said Bunting, drawing in his breath. But Daisy was longing to get on—to get to the Black Museum. All this that Joe and her father were saying was quite unreal to her, and, for the matter of that not worth taking the trouble to understand. However, she had not long to wait.

A broad-shouldered, pleasant-looking young fellow, who seemed on very friendly terms with Joe Chandler, came forward suddenly, and, unlocking a common-place-looking door, ushered the little party of three through into the Black Museum.

For a moment there came across Daisy a feeling of keen disappointment and surprise. This big, light room simply reminded her of what they called the Science Room in the public library of the town where she lived with Old Aunt. Here, as there, the centre was taken up with plain glass cases fixed at a height from the floor which enabled their contents to be looked at closely.

She walked forward and peered into the case nearest the door. The exhibits shown there were mostly small, shabby-looking little things, the sort of things one might turn out of an old rubbish cupboard in an untidy house—old medicine bottles, a soiled neckerchief, what looked like a child’s broken lantern, even a box of pills. . .

As for the walls, they were covered with the queerest-looking objects; bits of old iron, odd-looking things made of wood and leather, and so on.

It was really rather disappointing.

Then Daisy Bunting gradually became aware that standing on a shelf just below the first of the broad, spacious windows which made the great room look so light and shadowless, was a row of life-size white plaster heads, each head slightly inclined to the right. There were about a dozen of these, not more—and they had such odd, staring, helpless, real-looking faces.

“Whatever’s those?” asked Bunting in a low voice.

Daisy clung a thought closer to her father’s arm. Even she guessed that these strange, pathetic, staring faces were the death-masks of those men and women who had fulfilled the awful law which ordains that the murderer shall be, in his turn, done to death.

“All hanged!” said the guardian of the Black Museum briefly. “Casts taken after death.”

Bunting smiled nervously. “They don’t look dead somehow. They looks more as if they were listening,” he said.

“That’s the fault of Jack Ketch,” said the man facetiously. “It’s his idea—that of knotting his patient’s necktie under the left ear! That’s what he does to each of the gentlemen to whom he has to act valet on just one occasion only. It makes them lean just a bit to one side. You look here—?”

Daisy and her father came a little closer, and the speaker pointed with his finger to a little dent imprinted on the left side of each neck; running from this indentation was a curious little furrow, well ridged above, showing how tightly Jack Ketch’s necktie had been drawn when its wearer was hurried through the gates of eternity.

“They looks foolish-like, rather than terrified, or—or hurt,” said Bunting wonderingly.

He was extraordinarily moved and fascinated by those dumb, staring faces.

But young Chandler exclaimed in a cheerful, matter-of-fact voice, “Well, a man would look foolish at such a time as that, with all his plans brought to naught—and knowing he’s only got a second to live—now wouldn’t he?”

“Yes, I suppose he would,” said Bunting slowly.

Daisy had gone a little pale. The sinister, breathless atmosphere of the place was beginning to tell on her. She now began to understand that the shabby little objects lying there in the glass case close to her were each and all links in the chain of evidence which, in almost every case, had brought some guilty man or woman to the gallows.

“We had a yellow gentleman here the other day,” observed the guardian suddenly; “one of those Brahmins—so they calls themselves. Well, you’d a been quite surprised to see how that heathen took on! He declared—what was the word he used?”—he turned to Chandler.

“He said that each of these things, with the exception of the casts, mind you—queer to say, he left them out—exuded evil, that was the word he used! Exuded—squeezed out it means. He said that being here made him feel very bad. And twasn’t all nonsense either. He turned quite green under his yellow skin, and we had to shove him out quick. He didn’t feel better till he’d got right to the other end of the passage!”

“There now! Who’d ever think of that?” said Bunting. “I should say that man ’ud got something on his conscience, wouldn’t you?”

“Well, I needn’t stay now,” said Joe’s good-natured friend. “You show your friends round, Chandler. You knows the place nearly as well as I do, don’t you?”

He smiled at Joe’s visitors, as if to say good-bye, but it seemed that he could not tear himself away after all.

“Look here,” he said to Bunting. “In this here little case are the tools of Charles Peace. I expect you’ve heard of him.”

“I should think I have!” cried Bunting eagerly.

“Many gents as comes here thinks this case the most interesting of all. Peace was such a wonderful man! A great inventor they say he would have been, had he been put in the way of it. Here’s his ladder; you see it folds up quite compactly, and makes a nice little bundle—just like a bundle of old sticks any man might have been seen carrying about London in those days without attracting any attention. Why, it probably helped him to look like an honest working man time and time again, for on being arrested he declared most solemnly he’d always carried that ladder openly under his arm.”

“The daring of that!” cried Bunting.