REMEMBERING A FACE

Greymouth Evening Star, 26 July 1930, Page 8

REMEMBERING A FACE

STRANGE PEOPLE YOU MEET. The other day, having been robbed, I found myself for the first time in my life at Scotland Yard (writes Donald Brook, in the “Sunday Express”). I experienced a feeling, as I crossed the courtyard, that when I entered the building I would step straight into the pages of an Edgar Wallace novel. This impression was possibly the result of finding the detective using words, the meaning of which I had learned from Mr Wallace’s exciting novels.

When we did pass through the portals, I received an impression not of Edgar Wallace but of the CardinalArchbishop’s house at Westminster. There was the same air of monastic dignity, the same silence, the same suggestion of ordered government. After a few minutes waiting, I was taken to a room where I looked through two or three albums of photographs.

As I turned over page after page of the most criminal types I had ever seen, there flashed across my mind these lines from a song sung by the late Norah Bayes: —

“Every painted lady Is some lonely mother’s baby, But on Broadway she’s a wild, wild rose.”

The utterly inconsequent humour of it made me smile; and yet it was deadly true. Somewhere, there were mothers, wives, and. daughters to whom this collection of ruffians meant something dear, possibly sacred. I continued to turn the and another thought occurred to me. How does it happen that these repellentlooking men are ever able to deceive anyone? “Surely,” I thought, “it is impossible.” Then I turned a page and found myself staring at a profile. It was the fellow I was looking for. But what a difference clothes make! The photograph had been taken in prison; tlie clothes were rough, his appearance unshaven and unkempt.

When I had encountered him he was well-dressed and good-looking, glib, end self-assured. It was difficult to realise it was the same man. As we left the Yard the detective said to me, “If you want to amuse yourself when you’re on. a tramcar or in the omnibus, try studying the faces round you, and it won’t be long before you spot a man who’s been ‘inside.’ ” I have not felt like trying that form of amusement; it is too like prying. Vvhile in France during the war I took two hundred remounts up the lino from the Advanced Horse Depot at Abbeville. My orders were to hand them over to a certain Captain Henry Jones (that was not his real name, of course), at a certain place behind the lines.

When I reached my destination it was too dark to hand over properly that night, so I went along to find the officer-in-charge. He received me coldly, and announced that he had no room for me in camp, but that there was a village about a, mile and a-half away, where I could get a billet for the night. During our short interview I noticed that the middle finger of his right hand was missing. Some months later he treated a friend of mine in the same way, and a month after that he acted similarly to my cousin.

A few years ago I had occasion to go to the dentist. In the waiting-room was the usual collection of illustrated weeklies, including some American papers. Suddenly my attention was riveted by a face I knew. It was my surly acquaintance “Captain Henry Jones.” He had been electrocuted in the Tombs Prison, New York, for a. murder of a peculiarly revolting nature. He was photographed with his right hand on his knee, and I could clearly see that the middle finger was missing. ,

The production of John Galsworthy’s play, “Escape,” in London recalled a strange incident that occurred down in Galway many years ago. My uncle, who was a magistrate, was to ride one of his own horges in the local races, but the day before the meeting lie sprained his wrist. Ho was at his wits’ end to find another rider, for the mare was a temperamental animal and was not anybody’s mount. Furthermore, my uncle had a large sum of money on the race.

“Lave it to me, yer honour,” said Owen, the head groom, “I’ve the very man. ’Tis a little weeshy sthrip of a fella over beyant in Loughnaragee— Barney Muldoon’s his name, and the whole of Ireland’ll be hearing of him to-morrow night.” Well, Barney was brought from “over beyant,” and rode the mare toi a brilliant victory.

Years later my uncle, in his. official capacity as magistrate , was duly warned that a dangerous criminal had escaped from Mullinger Gaol in Meath and was at large in the county. Days past and nothing was heard of him, until one evening my uncle was sitting writing in the library. Suddenly his dog sprang up. At the window was the face of Barney Muldoon. “Well, Barnoy,” saffi my. uncle, “what is it?”

“Well, yer honour, let me in, for the love o’ God —I’m starving,’ said Barney.

My uncle brought him into the library. As soon as Muldoon took, his cap off my uncle knew he was the escaped convict. His shaven head betrayed him.

After my undo had given him food, a stiff whisky, and a cigar, he asked him why hy had come to the house. Barney grinned through the cigar smoke. “Sure,” he said, “where would I be safer in the whole of Galway than under yer honour’s roof? They’ll never think of looking for me here.”

“Faith, that’s true,” said the uncle, and roared with laughter.

“I really came to see you,” Barney explained, “because I’ve no money, and I want to get away to America. I won a, race for yer honour once, and for old times’ sake 1 know ye’ll help me.” It was the verj r devil of a. situation; hero he was, a magistrate, asked to aid an escaped convict.

Presently Barney spoke. “How’s the male? he asked, softly. “’Tis the great, heart for a race she has.” That settled it.

My uncle put out his hand. “All right, Barney, you ruffian,” he said, “but you’ll have to leave the time to me, for I can't risk a scandal.” “Sure, I knew I was safe with yer honour,” said Barney, relaxing happily.

My uncle kept Barney in hiding for a week, and then got him away in a cargo boat.