CONVICT 9648
TEN years in the State penitentiary. One month past — one hundred and nineteen yet to come!
This was the thought that confronted Herbert Carpenter, once gentleman of leisure — and blackmail — now Convict 9648.
Justice had worked swiftly in the case of Herbert Carpenter. He had taken the rap, with a plea of guilty. He had gone to prison penniless. When he had joined Wheels Bryant’s crime group, he had needed funds. All of his profits had gone to the big shot since that time.
Herbert Carpenter had much to think about now. Certain suicides at the Hotel Pavilion — they had been of his making. Men whom he had despoiled of funds had taken their lives in desperation.
Gloomily, Carpenter, within his cell, pictured Seaview City. He could hear the surf roaring on the beach; he caught the din of the Club Catalina; the click of the ball on the roulette wheel.
Then his mind turned to his wife and children. At least they were secure. They could not be happy — particularly Madge, who knew the truth, even if the youngsters did not — but at least they were not in want.
Parole — time off for good behavior — these were the only rays of hope that gleamed for Herbert Carpenter. Both of these possibilities belonged to the distant future. There would be many long months of stern routine before such could come to pass.
The State prison, a modernized institution, lacked much of the grim misery that characterized the penitentiaries of an earlier era. The warden understood the psychology of the men under his charge. At his order, Herbert Carpenter had been placed at an occupation which was by no means unbearable. Each day he marched, with other convicts, to a prison workshop, where steady labor relieved the tedium of this new existence.
But to Carpenter, the sight of the high gray walls was a constant reminder of his helplessness, he had been used to freedom and luxury. This servitude was difficult to bear. Where prisoners of less intelligence thought little of their lot, this former master of crime was impressed by the grip of confinement.
His wife had not visited him since he had been committed to the penitentiary. That was Carpenter’s wish. The letters which he received were sufficient to maintain his peace of mind. He did not want Madge to see him here.
THE prison sentence had been a terrific blow. Seated in his cell, confused by hectic thoughts. Carpenter recalled the scene of the courtroom.
Justice had moved swiftly in Seaview City. Carpenter, after realizing that blackmail would be the only charge against him, had hoped for a light sentence. Ten years had stunned him.
They had made an example of him. His case would remain a warning to other crooks. Despite a softheartedness displayed by Gifford Morton, the judge had remained obdurate. Yet on afterthought, Herbert Carpenter realized that his lot might have been much worse.
The gunmen captured in Morton’s room had gone to prison for life. It was fortunate, Carpenter realized, that he had not been linked with them!
Keys clinked as a keeper stopped before Carpenter’s cell. The prisoner looked up in surprise. The man was unlocking the door. Convict 9648 arose mechanically. He wondered what the purpose of this might be.
“Visitor to see you,” informed the keeper gruffly. “Come along.”
Carpenter felt himself in a daze as he was marched through the corridors. Had Madge come here? No — she had promised to stay away unless he sent for her.
Could it be some other member of the crime group? No — that, too, was impossible. None of them would risk a visit, daring though they were.
Now, in the visitor’s room, Carpenter was posted on one side of a long wire screen. He was one of a spread-out line of other numbered men, who were talking with people who had come to see them.
Carpenter stared through the screen. He blinked wearily, and finally recognized the face of the young man who stood on the opposite side. It was Jerry Stevens — his wife’s brother.
“Hello, Jerry,” said Carpenter, in a tired tone. “What are you doing here?”
“Came to see you, Herb,” responded Jerry, in a dull voice. “Came to see you — on account of Madge.”
“Madge?
“Yes. She wrote you, didn’t she?”
“She wrote me that everything was all right” — Carpenter’s voice was apprehensive — “just got a letter from her a day or two ago. She’s all right, isn’t she, Jerry?”
“Yes” — Jerry’s tone was reluctant — “I guess she’s all right, Herb. I’m doing all I can to help out. Of course, I’m out of a job—”
“She doesn’t need money, does she?” questioned Carpenter, in surprise. “I fixed that, Jerry — you know, the cottage is all paid for — I arranged those — those securities so she would have an income—”
“She has the cottage, Herb. That’s all. I thought you ought to know about it — just in case there was any way — anybody that I could go to — I can work, if I have the place—”
“Tell me the rest, Jerry,” said Carpenter grimly.
“Madge is sick, Herb,” said Jerry Stevens. “I’ve got to send her to the hospital. I’ve got to get some one in to take care of the kids while she’s gone. I guess she didn’t write you any of her troubles. That’s like Madge.
“I can raise a little money, Herb — enough to look out for a few weeks — while I go up to New York to try for a job. But after that — well—”
“Time’s up.”
It was the keeper who spoke. He was drawing Convict 9648 away from the wire screen.
“Get her to the hospital, Jerry,” pleaded the prisoner. “Do everything you can — don’t worry about the rest. I’ll—”
Jerry Stevens was nodding as Carpenter was drawn away. Scarcely more than a boy, Jerry had faith in this man, whom he had idolized before the crash.
WALKING to his cell, Herbert Carpenter scarcely saw the scenes about him. His brain was bursting with an uncontrollable madness. The news that he had just received formed a sordid story of treachery.
He had been double-crossed — by the men whom he had trusted. Crook though he was, Carpenter had always believed that honor could exist among criminals.
Wheels Bryant — Shifter Reeves — Hooks Borglund — Big Tom Bagshawe. Those were the men who had betrayed their trust. Steeped in ill-gotten wealth, despite their heavy setbacks, they were able to provide for the innocents who had suffered. But they had not done so.
The iron door clanked. Carpenter sat on his cot, dejected. Money! He knew where some could be gotten — a small amount that he had tucked away for emergency — that he had not imagined would be needed. It was in a savings fund, under an assumed name. To obtain it would be easy — if he were away from this place.
Iron bars and stone walls. How could he escape them? A deep groan came from the cell wherein Convict 9648 was imprisoned. Herbert Carpenter was tasting the dregs of anguish. He had learned — more deeply than ever — the futility of crime.
A NEW day dawned — a happy day for some persons, but not for Herbert Carpenter. That day passed. It was followed by a night of gloom.
Two days — three days — four days — the fifth found Herbert Carpenter, again in the prison workshop, pounding stolidly away at an unending task.
The men were finishing a consignment of large ash cans. The day’s work was nearing its close. This afternoon, these prison-made goods would be shipped away, and a new consignment would be started on the morrow.
Big trucks snorted in the prison yard. The keeper in charge ordered six men to line up. The others marched away. The six who remained were put to work carrying the huge containers to the trucks.
Herbert Carpenter was one of the half dozen detailed to this job. Mechanically, he picked up the cover of an ash can and placed it on the container. He carried his burden to a designated truck, where workmen stowed it aboard.
The work continued. The line of burdened convicts moved back and forth. Sweating under the glaring sun. No. 9648 trudged hopelessly. The truck was nearly loaded. It had no back — nothing but two iron chains that would stretch across to hold the load of ash cans.
No. 9648 stopped to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. He saw one truck pulling away. This one would go next. It was leaving for the outside world, carrying a crew of joking workmen. Envy governed 9648. If he could only be one of those men!
“Keep moving there!” A keeper was speaking. “Go in and bring out another ash can. Finish this load!”
Convict 9648 responded sullenly. He turned toward the workshop. He reached the long rows of ash cans. One container was lying on its side, upset. The cover was beside it.
The pitiful face of 9648 suddenly became the crafty countenance of Herbert Carpenter. The mind of the schemer had returned. A sudden inspiration — a daring opportunity -
The convict picked up the ash can and set it upside down. Upon the bottom he placed the loose cover and rammed it tight. He hoisted his burden and went into the yard.
The ash cans were plain cylinders. They looked the same either way. The keeper who saw No. 9648 pass by never realized that the ash can was inverted beneath its cover.
That container went on the rear of the truck, filling the last available space. The iron chains were stretched across. The convict moved away as the truck began to reverse.
He followed an unusual course, backing away as the truck came toward him. His body was totally obscured by the big vehicle. With a forward leap, the gray-clad man pushed up the ash can that he had last deposited. He slid agilely beneath the iron chains.
The raised ash can settled flat upon the floor of the truck. Beneath its inverted bottom was the huddled form of Convict 9648!
THE truck rumbled through the prison gates, watched by attentive guards. There it paused for inspection.
Ash cans were never overlooked by these watchers. Two men leaped aboard and began raising lids.
Poised on the rear edge of the truck, leaning back against a chain, an inspector came to the last ash can. He tried to pry the cover loose. It was jammed tight. The inspector grunted. His hands dropped to the handles, and he raised the ash can a foot from the floor.
“Nothing in that one,” he said, with a laugh, to his approaching companion. “That’s easier than opening them. Lift them — like this.”
He let the ash can drop back with a thud. His companion grinned. The big container was certainly empty. Its comparative lightness proved that fact.
The inspectors dropped from the truck. They watched it roll away. Neither noted the location of the handles on that last ash can that pressed against the chains. Those handles were a trifle lower than the others — a sign that the container was upside down. But the detail escaped observation.
The burdened truck clattered along a highway. Its speed slowed; the vehicle groaned as the driver shifted into a low gear for an up grade. The penitentiary was miles behind; the truck was going at a snail’s pace now.
The chain-pressing ash can raised slowly upward. Two legs emerged from beneath it. A tall body slipped away and slid under the lower chain. A gray-clad form dropped into the road. The truck was winding up a sharp-turning hill. No other vehicles were in sight.
The man in somber gray scrambled to his feet and dashed toward the shelter of a clump of bushes at the side of the road. He crouched there while an automobile came speeding down the grade. Then he climbed the bank and made for a small cluster of trees at the top.
The day ended. Gray, clouded night followed. A man crept into a darkened farmhouse. He found an upstairs room, and discovered a suit of clothes hanging in the closet.
Hours later, a man in a dark-brown suit picked up a lift on a highway near that farmhouse. He conversed affably with the motorist who was giving him the ride. He dropped off when they reached a town.
Back in the penitentiary, the alarm had gone out. A prisoner was missing. The method of his departure was unknown. Guards were searching for his means of escape.
That man was far away, still wending his course across the State. Convict 9648 was once more Herbert Carpenter!