For half an hour he sat in his nondescript costume, smoking cigarettes. He was thoroughly satisfied with the night's work. It had been ordained that his flat should be burgled, and he, Sylvanus Conti, professor of hypnotism and mesmerism, seizing his opportunity, had diverted to his own ends the august decrees of destiny.
He pictured Mr. William Gibson reading the account of his triumph in the evening papers. He saw the headlines. He himself would inspire them. He saw it all. Not only would those come back who had forsaken him for "the English Mesmerist," but others also would want him. He saw himself a "star turn" at one of the West-end halls.
He saw many things: fame, fortune, a motor-car, and, in the far distance, the realisation of his great ambition, a scientific career. In a way he was a little sorry for the burglar, the instrument of fate.
Throwing off his overcoat and removing his slippers, the Professor switched off the light, got into bed, and was soon asleep.
CHAPTER III
THE HYPNOTIC FIASCO
I
Whilst Professor Conti was building elaborate castles in the air, Bindle with tense caution crept down the three flights of stairs that led to the street.
Everything was quiet and dark. As he softly closed the outer door behind him he heard a clock striking three. Swiftly he removed the bandages that swathed his head, tucked them in his pockets and stepped out briskly.
He wanted to think, but above all he wanted food and drink.
As a precaution against the attentions of the police he began to whistle loudly. None, he argued, would suspect of being a burglar a man who was whistling at the stretch of his power. Once he stopped dead and laughed.
"Joe Bindle," he remarked, "you been burglin', and you're mesmerised, an' you're goin' to give yerself up to the police, an' don't you forget it, as it might 'urt the Professor's feelings."
He slapped his knee, laughed again, recommenced whistling, and continued on his way.
Occasionally his hand would wander in the direction of the left-hand pocket of his coat, when, feeling the Professor's watch and chain and the note to the police, his face would irradiate joy.
He must think, however. He could not continue walking and whistling for ever. He must think; and with Bindle to think it was necessary that he should remain still. This he dare not do for fear of arousing suspicion.
Once in turning a corner suddenly he almost collided with a policeman.
"Tryin' to wake the whole place?" enquired the policeman. "Where are you goin', makin' such a row about it?"
"To 'ell, same as you, ole sport," responded Bindle cheerfully. "Goo'-night! See yer later!"
The policeman grumbled something and passed on. Presently Bindle saw the lights of a coffee-stall, towards which he walked briskly. Over two sausages and some bacon he reviewed the situation, chaffed the proprietor, and treated to a meal the bedraggled remnants of what had once been a woman, whom he found hovering hungrily about the stall.
When he eventually said "Good-mornin'" to his host and guest, he had worked out his plan of campaign.
He walked in the direction of the police-station, having first resumed his bandages. Day was beginning to break. Seeing a man approaching him, he quickened his pace to a run. As he came within a few yards of the man, who appeared to be of the labourer class, he slackened his pace, then stopped abruptly.
"Where's the police-station, mate?" he enquired, panting as if with great exertion.
"The police-station?" repeated the man curiously. "Straight up the road, then third or fourth to the right, then – "
"Is it miles?" panted Bindle.
"'Bout quarter of a mile, not more. What's up, mate?" the man enquired. "Been 'urt?"
"Quarter of a mile, and 'im bleedin' to death! I got to fetch a doctor," Bindle continued. Then, as if with sudden inspiration, he thrust Professor Conti's letter into the astonished man's hands.
"In the name of the law I order yer to take this letter to the police-station. I'll go for a doctor. Quick – it's burglary and murder! 'Ere's a bob for yer trouble."
With that, Bindle sped back the way he had come, praying that no policeman might see him and give chase.
The workman stood looking stupidly from the letter and the shilling in his hand to the retreating form of Bindle. After a moment's hesitation he pocketed the coin, and with a grumble in his throat and the fear of the Law in his heart, he turned and slowly made his way to the police-station.
II
When Professor Conti awoke on the morning of the burglary, he was horrified to find, from the medley of sounds without, produced by hooters and bells, that it was half-past eight.
Jumping quickly out of bed, he shaved, washed, and dressed with great expedition, and before nine was in a telephone call-box ringing up the police. On learning that his note had been duly delivered, he smiled his satisfaction into the telephone mouthpiece.
Fortunately he was known to the sergeant who answered him, having recently given his services at an entertainment organised by the local police. After some difficulty he arranged that the charge should be taken through the telephone, although a most irregular proceeding.
"He's givin' us a lot of trouble, sir. Talks of having been given the note, and about a burglary and attempted murder," volunteered the sergeant.
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the Professor.
"Ha, ha, ha!" echoed the sergeant, and they rang off.
In spite of his laugh, the Professor was a little puzzled by the sergeant's words. The man should still be under control. However, he reasoned, the fellow was caught, and he had other and more important things to occupy his mind. Hailing a passing taxi, he drove to the offices of The Evening Mail. Sending up his card with the words IMPORTANT NEWS written upon it, he gained immediate access to the news-editor.
Within ten minutes the story of the hypnotised burglar was being dictated by the editor himself to relays of shorthand writers. The police had, on the telephone, confirmed the story of a man having given himself up, and the whole adventure was, in the argot of Fleet Street, "hot stuff."
By half-past eleven the papers were selling in the streets, and the Professor was on his way to the police-court. He had been told the case would not come on before twelve. As his taxi threaded its way jerkily westward, he caught glimpses of the placards of the noon edition of The Evening Mail, bearing such sensational lines as:
He smiled pleasantly as he pictured his reception that evening, as an extra turn, at one of the big music-halls.
He fell to speculating as to how much he should demand, and to which manager he should offer his services. "The Napoleon of Mesmerists," was the title he had decided to adopt. Again the Professor smiled amiably as he thought of the column of description with headlines in The Evening Mail. He had indeed achieved success.
III
The drowsy atmosphere of the West London Police Court oppressed even the prisoners. They came, heard, and departed; protagonists for a few minutes in a drama, then oblivion. The magistrate was cross, the clerk husky, and the police anxiously deferential, for one of their number had that morning been severely censured for being unable to discriminate between the effects upon the human frame of laudanum and whisky.
Nobody was interested – there was nothing in which to be interested – and there was less oxygen than usual in the court, the magistrate had a cold. It was a miserable business, this detection and punishing of crime.
"Twenty shillings costs, seven days," snuffled the presiding genius.
A piece of human flotsam faced about and disappeared.
Another name was called. The sergeant in charge of the new case cleared his throat. The magistrate lifted his handkerchief