The Memoirs of Constantine Dix

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THE MEMOIRS OF CONSTANTINE DIX

THE MEMOIRS OF CONSTANTINE DIX

BY BARRY PAIN

I. The Dead Man Wins

THE MEMOIRS OF CONSTANTINE DIX

I

THE DEAD MAN WINS

Bingham sacked his third footman. The fellow had got as drunk as an owl, and had been insolent. He had no character, and he was a fool; so he came to London. There he hung about the docks, and spent what little money he had, and got into bad company. Ikey got hold of him. One night when Ikey had nothing better to do, he made the idiot drunk, and while he was drunk he told the plain truth about Bingham and the diamonds. I heard of it from Ikey the next day, when he had found religion and wanted to lead quite a new life. I am glad to say that I had friends who put him in the way of some honest work. The information about Bingham, I thought, would be of use to me.

If you enquire at Scotland Yard, where my name is known, they will tell you that I am engaged in rescue work, and do a lot of good. They will probably add that I have independent means, and am frequently imposed upon. It may be so. I am not at all anxious that Scotland Yard should change its mind on the subject.

I am not attached to any particular denomination, but I trust that I am sympathetic with all of them. The Catholics have great hopes of winning me in the end; so also have the Nonconformists. Many an Anglican clergyman has told me that he wished the Church included in its fold more such workers as myself. I go about a great deal among the criminal classes in the poorest part of London. I give them not only excellent advice and spiritual consolation, but material help in money or food when times are bad, and sometimes I hear of things from them which I think are likely to be useful, as in the case of that little information about Bingham.

I am also, as you may have conjectured, a thief. I have been a thief for many years. I have never been in prison, and I do not propose to go there. It is not really necessary if one will only follow a few simple rules. To begin with, I have never in my life possessed anything which the police would call a house-breaking implement. Explanation of one's presence uninvited in another man's house at midnight is only rendered more difficult if a box of silent matches, a jemmy, a drill and a revolver are found in one's possession. Without such tools it is impossible to attempt the opening of a good safe; but I never attempt the opening of a good safe. My pocket-knife contains all the tools that I require; and the place of a revolver is taken by what appears to be a simple cigarette. When I am taken I trust I shall behave civilly and like a gentlemen; and I have no doubt that the officer will permit me one last smoke on my way to the station. Then that cigarette will come in, and that officer and myself will get a pretty object-lesson in the use of high explosives. Unfortunately we shall not live to profit by it. I have never had a confederate and I very rarely make use of a receiver; the only receiver whom I ever used lives in Brussels, does not know my right name and address, is under the impression that I am a diamond merchant, and would not dream of receiving stolen goods if he knew that he were doing so. It is a rule of my life that the successful thief must in all possible respects live like an honest man. No dishonesty except on business. I have twice found valuable property in the street, and on both occasions I took it to Scotland Yard. I am one of the few persons now living who have never attempted to cheat a railway company. I never avoid the police, and they are happily convinced of my philanthropic motives in associating with bad characters. I never drink intoxicating liquor unless I mean to get intoxicated. This simple rule alone would have saved many men the sacrifice of their freedom. I do not believe in unnecessary risks, cumbersome loot, numbered notes, overruling ambitions or extravagance in living. If it is objected to me that I only go for the soft things, my vanity is not wounded, and my common-sense is complimented. I am investing my money as I make it, for I do not want to work all my life.

I am then a lay-preacher and an habitual thief. You will add that I am a hypocrite: frankly, I do not know whether I am or not. I speak the truth here; the publication of these memoirs can only occur when the truth can no longer injure me. And I say with truth that I am thoroughly in earnest in my rescue work. I have pleaded with these men with tears in my eyes; I have never preached without believing every word that I said. The police could point out to you men whom I have reformed—men who are now living honestly and in good positions through my help. I can help others but not myself. That I believe to be predestined. I accept the case as it is, and do not worry myself with introspection.

When Ikey (not for the first or second time) found religion he naturally came to me. He told me what he had heard from Bingham's dismissed servant, and admitted that but for his regeneration he would probably at that moment have been looking for Bingham's diamonds. He seemed very thankful, and his whole face was radiant. I regret to say about a year later he again fell into evil courses.

The story that Bingham's footman—his name was Evans—brought to Ikey was rather curious. Sir Charles Bingham, as everybody knows, made his money in South Africa. His house at Weybridge was interesting, and stood in picturesque grounds. Bingham was rather proud of the place. He was at this time a man of forty and unmarried. He was fond of entertaining, and generally had visitors in the house while he was there. In the dining-room the service door was screened off by a a tall, four-fold leather screen. One night, after dinner, the butler stood behind that screen, and heard what Bingham was saying to one of his guests. It was nice useful information, and the butler acted upon it next day. The shares went up with a rush, the butler retired on his profits, and Evans got to hear about it. After that Evans used to be rather fond of standing unseen behind that leather screen when the ladies had gone and the men were talking. He heard a good deal. He acquired quite a collection of humorous, though slightly indelicate stories, but he never heard Sir Charles say anything was good to buy for a quick rise; possibly Sir Charles had his suspicions in the case of the butler.

One night Evans heard a guest (whom he always spoke of as the Colonel) say to Bingham:

"What about those diamonds? Got them here still?"

Sir Charles said he had.

"You'll lose them for a certainty," said the Colonel. Why don't you send them to your banker, or at least keep them in a good strong safe?"

"I don't send them to the bank because I am interested in them, and I like to look at them. To my mind they are as pretty as flowers. I don't keep them in a safe because to do that would be practically to tell the burglar where to look for them, and the best safe is of no use against the cleverest burglar. My system is all right. At any rate I have not lost them yet."

"Where are they now?" the Colonel asked.

"In my pocket. You can have a look at them if you like."

Evans also would have liked—very much liked—to have had a look at them, but he dared not show his head round the edge of the screen. He could hear the crackle of paper being unfolded and murmurs of admiration and astonishment.

"And where will they be to-night?" said the Colonel.

"I shall hide them somewhere or other as usual. I am the last man to go to bed in this house, and as a rule I hide them just before going to bed. Its rather amusing to think of new places."

"It's absolutely childish," said the Colonel. "How would you like me to go and look for them to-night?"

"You can if you like," said Sir Charles; "on one condition. They shall be hidden in a place accessible to you, and if you have got them at breakfast-time to-morrow you may keep them. If you have not got them you will pay me a sovereign."

"Good!" said the Colonel. "I think I would take five thousand to one about anything on the face of this earth. You will lose your diamonds to-night."

"Think so?" said Sir Charles, and changed the subject.

The Colonel did not go to bed that night. At breakfast-time he handed his host a sovereign, and was told where the diamonds had been hidden. They had been under the coals in the scuttle in the Colonel's bedroom.

Evans now felt that the diamonds were practically in his pocket. Every night he determined to hunt for them. Fortunately, or unfortunately for him, his elation and the strain on his nerves led him to drink, and before a week was over he had been dismissed.

This was the story that Ikey told me, and on the following day I bought a very nice hand-camera and went down to Weybridge.

I took a cab at Weybridge Station, and stopped in at the lodge to enquire if Sir Charles was likely to be at home. I then went on up to the house. I gave the butler my card with my correct name and address upon it. The commonest mistake that an uneducated thief makes is to use an alias when no alias is necessary. I asked the man to take my card to Sir Charles and request permission for an amateur to make one or two photographs in his grounds for a private collection. I waited in the big square hall. I had only waited two or three minutes before Sir Charles appeared; but I do not think the diamonds were hidden in the hall.

Sir Charles came out from the drawing-room. He was a big, fat, lazy-looking man, with his hands thrust into the pockets of his light Norfolk jacket. He seemed to be slightly annoyed—at which I was not surprised—and eyed me up and down quickly. He was an ugly man and seemed a strong man.

"Afternoon," said Sir Charles. "It's you that wants to photograph my place?"

"If you would be kind enough to give me permission."

"I say, you know, I never heard of such a thing! Its not for any paper, is it? They are always bothering me, and I won't have it—I simply won't have it. See?"

"I have no connection with the Press whatever. A friend of mine. General Tomlinson, came here some time ago to see you about a footman who had been in your employ—a man called Evans. You were away at the time but my friend noticed the remarkable beauty of the place, knowing my photographic hobby, and2"

Sir Charles broke in impatiently.

"Evans was a drunken scamp. I told him he would have no character, and it was no good to send anybody to me." But I could see that the appreciation of his place had moved him rather. "Still," he went on, " I don't know why you shouldn't photograph if you want to. It is rather a pretty spot, so they tell me. Its quite understood that it is simply for your own private collection."

"Certainly, Sir Charles, simply for that, though I should hope to have the pleasure of sending you copies of course."

"Thanks," said Sir Charles. He paused a moment irresolute, and then snatched up an aged Panama hat. "Come along," he said, "I'll show you some of the best bits."

I took two or three photographs in the garden, and afterwards some time-exposures of different rooms in the house. It was easy enough with a little more flattery to lead from the one thing to the other, in fact it was Sir Charles himself who suggested that I should photograph in the house. He became very civil, and wanted me to have a whiskey and soda with him before I went. I refused of course. (The photographs turned out very well. I sent him a complete set of them afterwards, and he wrote and thanked me.) And as soon as I was safely back in my cab I drew from my pocket the wisp of green paper which I had taken from behind the tall clock in the dining-room. I unfolded it with the greatest care. It contained a few tin-tacks.

I confess to some slight feeling of disappointment—it was not irritation; I did not swear, and I may say here that I have never used a profane word in my life. I had not got the diamonds, but I had got a variety of useful information. I knew, for instance, that alarm guns were used, and I had been able to see where the wires were stretched at night on the lawn and across the drive. I also knew, for Sir Charles himself had told me, that he considered a holly hedge seven feet in height, and about three feet through, to be burglar-proof—which is not the case. The photographs which I had taken were themselves of use in enabling me to find my way about. So I was not impatient.

Having thought out my plan of action I went down to Weybridge about a week later. I had left my motor-car at Guildford with instructions that I should come up from London to fetch it early on the morning of the following day. I reached Weybridge at about seven in the evening and went straight to the fields at the back of Bingham's grounds. I examined the holly hedge, marked the best spot, and then went into the town to dine. I returned at ten, and got to work at once. I could see that there were still lights in the house, but I was out of sight and I made little or no noise. With the aid of the implements and my pocket-knife I had by eleven o'clock made a hole in the hedge through which I could crawl. Holly is after all very easy to handle if you have intelligence and thick gloves. The full moon was now coming up, and I think I could leave detected any of the wires, at any rate on the gravel. But as a measure of precaution I walked principally on the flower-beds; flower-beds are never wired. There seems to be a prevalent belief that a burglar would hesitate to break a geranium or fuchsia. This is not the case. I walked round the house in safety till I got to the porch. I should imagine that this was ten or eleven feet high, with a square roof to it, supported on pillars. From the top of this porch access was easy to the window of a little room which Sir Charles had described to me as his own study. I had made a photograph of this room at his special request; it seemed to be his favourite room, and I thought there was a fair chance that here I should find the diamonds. In studying my photograph of the room I was particularly struck by a tall bookcase, reaching from floor to ceiling and covering the middle third of one of the walls. It occurred to me that Sir Charles Bingham might possibly consider the space behind the books to be a good hiding-place.

I had already examined the ladders and had found them extremely well chained and locked. The lock would have presented no great difficulty to me, but there was very likely some electrical alarm attached. The place where they were kept was suspicious, and I did not like it; so I left the ladders alone and trusted to my skill in throwing the noose and in climbing a rope to get me to the top of the porch. The rope I was carrying in a coil under my waistcoat. I succeeded at the first attempt in noosing a projection of the parapet that ran round the roof of the porch. Funnily enough, I did not like this; things were going too easily; that always makes me suspicious. However, up I went and tried the study window. It was bolted, and when I slipped my knife in and forced back the spring it went with a snap that might have aroused the seven sleepers. I lay flat on my face in the shadow and waited. I could not hear a sound, and not a glimmer of light appeared anywhere. Again I felt that I had been too lucky. I slid the lower sash of the window softly upward and stepped into the room. I could see the bookcase clearly in the moonlight, and put my hand at hazard behind a row of handsomely bound volumes on the middle shelf. My hand came down on a soft chamois leather bag. I could feel the diamonds in it. I was absolutely certain that I had got them, and as certain that I should not keep them. This last stroke of luck frightened me.

As I withdrew my hand with the chamois bag in it it struck against a little knob that slid back easily, and immediately the bookcase began to move. I guessed what had happened. The bookcase screened an entrance into another room, and moved easily, though very slowly, by some mechanical device; I had inadvertently struck my hand against the knob which set the machinery in motion. Almost immediately I saw a thin streak of light running half-way up the wall and gradually widening. The next room was therefore lit up. I felt in my waistcoat pocket to see if that special cigarette to be used in cases of desperation was still in its proper place, and then stood back in the shadow and awaited events. The bookcase moved back until it disclosed a full-sized doorway, but with no door in it, and through this the light streamed into the room where I was standing. And with the light there came a strong scent of lilies and gardenias, heavy and oppressive.

All this had happened in absolute silence, except for the slight grunting of the machinery as the bookcase moved. I stood and waited, counting very slowly in my head. I counted up to five hundred, and still there was no sound of movement from the next room. The silence indeed seemed to be more intense than ever. I stepped out of my corner into the lighted doorway.

This room was a bedroom. On a small, and I should say cheap, iron bedstead in the middle of the room lay the dead body of Sir Charles. I will not describe him; a fat man does not look pretty when he is dead. The half-closed eyes seemed to be looking straight at me. The windows were heavily curtained, and on the bed itself and on the floor were masses of white flowers; the electric light was full on, and, in addition, a row of tall candles blazed at the head of the bed. I drew the chamois leather bag from my pocket and emptied out the diamonds into the palm of my hand. They were few in number, but magnificent in size and quality. I should say that the Colonel had decidedly underestimated them when he put their value at five thousand pounds.

I put the diamonds back in the bag, advanced towards the body and put the bag with the diamonds in it in the horrible pasty hand of the dead man. Then I went out.

With the living it is another affair, but the dead man wins, so far as I am concerned. I would not that night have taken one farthing from him for any consideration. I found my way back safely to the field, and wandered about for hours until the dawn came. A little later I got an early train on to Guildford, but I did not take the motor-car back to London at once. I went to the principal hotel and ordered a bedroom. I needed rest. And it had also become necessary for me to get intoxicated.

II. Reclamation Work

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.