Ashton-Kirk, Criminologist Part 26

"What sort of a result?" asked Scanlon.

"Oh, that I don't know. Wait, and we shall see."

CHAPTER XVI

"CONFESSED!"

The sombre, battlemented walls of the jail looked grim and merciless through the gray of the day. To Scanlon they seemed of appalling thickness and hardness; the turrets, which occurred at regular intervals, he knew held men, armed and sleepless, who watched tirelessly. Hundreds and hundreds of dingy souls drooped inside; guilt hung over the whole place like a palpable thing.

"Crime will never be cured by placing criminals in inst.i.tutions like this," said Ashton-Kirk, as they waited at the gate. "Instead, it breeds here. Prison-keepers are a race of themselves; as a rule they are bullies and grafters. And men placed for terms of years at the mercy of these can't be expected to grow, except toward the shadows. A youth, who, because of idleness, impulse or dissipation, offends society in some way, is thrown into this pit of moral filth to cleanse himself.

Very few men have the fibre of the true criminal; and when a casual lawbreaker sees this dreadful blow leveled at his soul, he is at first bewildered and afraid; then, if he has any spleen, he arrays himself against the force which struck the blow. And, so, society has gained another enemy."

They were admitted by a uniformed guard, and in a few moments were in the office. A white-haired man in a formal frock coat of a decade ago greeted Ashton-Kirk warmly.

"I am delighted to see you," said he, as they shook hands. "I doubt if you have been here since that forgery case of Hamilton & Durbon. Old Clark had reason to be thankful for your visit that day, sir, for it saved him a long term of undeserved imprisonment."

Ashton-Kirk smiled.

"It was rather a simple matter, and took only a few minutes to demonstrate," said he. "The firm was struck by panic, and frightened people usually want a victim. If this had not been so in their case--if they had used the ordinary intelligence of the day's work--they would have seen the truth themselves."

Here Ashton-Kirk presented Scanlon to the warden. The latter put on his eye-gla.s.ses and bowed with old-fas.h.i.+oned courtesy.

"We should like to see Frank Burton, the young man accused of murdering his father," said the investigator, after a little.

"Ah, yes!" The warden nodded, sadly. "That is a very dreadful case. I am told there is little doubt he is guilty. And a very prepossessing boy.

It is a great pity."

He went to the other side of the office to ring a bell, and Bat took the opportunity to say:

"What name did you give him?"

"Eastabrook! You may have heard of him. He has written books on penology, and goes about lecturing on prison conditions."

Scanlon looked dubious.

"I hope it won't depend on his say-so," said he. "He don't sound like a heavyweight to me."

"He's as easily deceived as a child--and I rather think that is why he is here. His great obsession is loyalty; every guard in the place may be a grafter and a rascal, but as long as there is an effusive display of loyalty to him, his eyes are closed. One honest man of his type is more of a clog to reform than all the scoundrels combined."

Here the old warden returned; at the same time a guard entered the office.

"Healey will show you the way, Mr. Ashton-Kirk," as he shook hands with the investigator. "And I trust your interest in this unfortunate young man will have happy results."

He also shook Scanlon's hand and expressed much gratification at having met him; then the two followed the guard out into the courtyard and into the gloomy corridors of the jail. There was a stale, confined smell in the place; a chill was in the air--the sort of thing that comes from continued damp. The blank steel doors with their rows of rivet heads, and the criminal history of the cell's inhabitant hanging beside them on a neat card, oppressed Bat.

"There is a movement on foot to do away with capital punishment," said he, to Ashton-Kirk. "What makes them think life imprisonment isn't as bad?"

The investigator shrugged his shoulders.

"They _don't_ think that," said he. "They merely present the indisputable fact that a legal murder cannot in any way make amends for an illegal one. When that is acted upon, I'm of the opinion that the jailing of men will get more attention."

The guard was a heavy-faced man, who walked with a limp. He had overheard these remarks, and now spoke.

"We hear lots of things like that," said he, resentfully. "People come here in gangs sometimes and talk their heads off, pitying men who can be handled only when they're locked up. If sheep could talk they'd say things just like these people; and these people, if the criminals weren't jailed, would be just as helpless among them as the sheep."

Bat Scanlon looked somewhat impressed.

"You've said something," said he, with a shake of the head, "but you haven't said it all."

"There was a woman here this morning," said the guard. "Was also in to see this fellow, Burton," as an afterthought. "And she talked that stuff, too."

"Came to see Burton, did she?" Ashton-Kirk looked interested. "Who was she?"

"Some kind of a relative, I think. It was Miss Cavanaugh, the actress."

Just then they came to a cell before which the guard stopped.

"Here you are," said he. "This is the man you want."

There was a shooting of bolts and the pressure of an opening door. The inner door was of close bars; they saw a narrow cell with unrelieved walls and a grated opening through which came a small trickle of daylight. A figure arose from the cot at the far end and stood looking uncertainly at the doorway.

"Want to go inside?" asked the guard. "The warden said it'd be all right."

"Thanks," said Ashton-Kirk; "if you please."

The barred door was unlocked and opened; the two entered, and stood face to face with young Burton.

"How are you?" said Scanlon, holding out a ready hand. "Remember me? I saw you at your place at Stanwick one day."

"The day I was arrested," said the young man. "I remember you."

Scanlon waved the hand, which the other had neglected to take, toward his friend.

"This is Mr. Ashton-Kirk. You may have heard of him. He's interested in this case."

The young artist made a weary gesture.

"That can be said of a great many people," he said. His face was white and had a hara.s.sed look; his eyes shone feverishly. "I have been, to speak frankly, plagued to death by their interest. It isn't a pleasant thing to feel that almost every one is consumed with the desire to place a brand of some sort upon a fellow creature."

Ashton-Kirk regarded him without resentment.

"I understand the feeling, I think," said he, quietly. "It comes from the shock of the charge laid against you, and the depression of the jail. But consider this," and the singular eyes held the young man steadily; "if the truth is to come out in this matter, interest must be taken by some one. If you are to be freed of this charge it will be very likely, by placing the weight of it upon some one else."

A look of despair was in the hot eyes of the prisoner; his hands clenched tightly.