Arthur Conan Doyle
My Friend The Murderer
Number 481 is no better, doctor, said the head-warder, in a slightly reproachful accent, looking in round the corner of my door.
Confound 481 I responded from behind the pages of the Australian Sketcher.
And 61 says his tubes are paining him. Couldnt you do anything for him?
He is a walking drug-shop, said I. He has the whole British pharmacopaæ inside him. I believe his tubes are as sound as yours are.
Then theres 7 and 108, they are chronic, continued the warder, glancing down a blue slip of paper. And 28 knocked off work yesterday said lifting things gave him a stitch in the side. I want you to have a look at him, if you dont mind, doctor. Theres 81, too him that killed John Adamson in the Corinthian brig hes been carrying on awful in the night, shrieking and yelling, he has, and no stopping him either.
All right, Ill have a look at him afterward, I said, tossing my paper carelessly aside, and pouring myself out a cup of coffee. Nothing else to report, I suppose, warder?
The official protruded his head a little further into the room. Beg pardon, doctor, he said, in a confidential tone, but I notice as 82 has a bit of a cold, and it would be a good excuse for you to visit him and have a chat, maybe.
The cup of coffee was arrested half-way to my lips as I stared in amazement at the mans serious face.
An excuse? I said. An excuse? What the deuce are you talking about, McPherson? You see me trudging about all day at my practise, when Im not looking after the prisoners, and coming back every night as tired as a dog, and you talk about finding an excuse for doing more work.
Youd like it, doctor, said Warder McPherson, insinuating one of his shoulders into the room. That mans storys worth listening to if you could get him to tell it, though hes not what youd call free in his speech. Maybe you dont know who 82 is?
No, I dont, and I dont care either, I answered, in the conviction that some local ruffian was about to be foisted upon me as a celebrity.
Hes Maloney, said the warder, him that turned Queens evidence after the murders at Bluemansdyke.
You dont say so? I ejaculated, laying down my cup in astonishment. I had heard of this ghastly series of murders, and read an account of them in a London magazine long before setting foot in the colony. I remembered that the atrocities committed had thrown the Burke and Hare crimes completely into the shade, and that one of the most villainous of the gang had saved his own skin by betraying his companions. Are you sure? I asked.
Oh, yes, its him right enough. Just you draw him out a bit, and hell astonish you. Hes a man to know, is Maloney; thats to say, in moderation; and the head grinned, bobbed, and disappeared, leaving me to finish my breakfast and ruminate over what I had heard.
The surgeonship of an Australian prison is not an enviable position. It may be endurable in Melbourne or Sydney, but the little town of Perth has few attractions to recommend it, and those few had been long exhausted. The climate was detestable, and the society far from congenial. Sheep and cattle were the staple support of the community; and their prices, breeding, and diseases the principal topic of conversation. Now as I, being an outsider, possessed neither the one nor the other, and was utterly callous to the new dip and the rot and other kindred topics, I found myself in a state of mental isolation, and was ready to hail anything which might relieve the monotony of my existence. Maloney, the murderer, had at least some distinctiveness and individuality in his character, and might act as a tonic to a mind sick of the commonplaces of existence. I determined that I should follow the warders advice, and take the excuse for making his acquaintance. When, therefore, I went upon my usual matutinal round, I turned the lock of the door which bore the convicts number upon it, and walked into the cell.
The man was lying in a heap upon his rough bed as I entered, but, uncoiling his long limbs, he started up and stared at me with an insolent look of defiance on his face which augured badly for our interview. He had a pale, set face, with sandy hair and a steely-blue eye, with something feline in its expression. His frame was tall and muscular, though there was a curious bend in his shoulders, which almost amounted to a deformity. An ordinary observer meeting him in the street might have put him down as a well-developed man, fairly handsome, and of studious habits even in the hideous uniform of the rottenest convict establishment he imparted a certain refinement to his carriage which marked him out among the inferior ruffians around him.
Im not on the sick-list, he said, gruffly. There was something in the hard, rasping voice which dispelled all softer illusions, and made me realize that I was face to face with the man of the Lena Valley and Bluemansdyke, the bloodiest bushranger that ever stuck up a farm or cut the throats of its occupants.
I know youre not, I answered. Warder McPherson told me you had a cold, though, and I thought Id look in and see you.
Blast Warder McPherson, and blast you, too! yelled the convict, in a paroxysm of rage. Oh, thats right, he added in a quieter voice; hurry away; report me to the governor, do! Get me another six months or so thats your game.
Im not going to report you, I said.
Eight square feet of ground, he went on, disregarding my protest, and evidently working himself into a fury again. Eight square feet, and I cant have that without being talked to and stared at, and oh, blast the whole crew of you! and he raised his two clinched hands above, his head and shook them in passionate invective.
Youve got a curious idea of hospitality, I remarked, determined not to lose my temper, and saying almost the first thing that came to my tongue.
To my surprise the words had an extraordinary effect upon him. He seemed completely staggered at my assuming the proposition for which he had been so fiercely contending namely, that the room in which he stood was his own.
I beg your pardon, he said; I didnt mean to be rude. Wont you take a seat? and he motioned toward a rough trestle, which formed the head-piece of his couch.
I sat down, rather astonished at the sudden change. I dont know that I liked Maloney better under this new aspect. The murderer had, it is true, disappeared for the nonce, but there was something in the smooth tones and obsequious manner which powerfully suggested the witness of the queen, who had stood up and sworn away the lives of his companions in crime.
Hows your chest? I asked, putting on my professional air.
Come, drop it, doctor drop it! he answered, showing a row of white teeth as he resumed his seat upon the side of the bed. It wasnt anxiety after my precious health that brought you along here; that story wont wash at all. You came to have a look at Wolf Tone Maloney, forger, murderer, Sydney-slider, ranger, and government peach. Thats about my figure, aint it? There it is, plain and straight; theres nothing mean about me.
He paused as if he expected me to say something; but as I remained silent, he repeated once or twice, Theres nothing mean about me.
And why shouldnt I? he suddenly yelled, his eyes gleaming and his whole satanic nature reasserting itself. We were bound to swing, one and all, and they were none the worse if I saved myself by turning against them. Every man for himself, say I, and the devil take the luckiest. You havent a plug of tobacco, doctor, have you?
He tore at the piece of Barretts which I handed him, as ravenously as a wild beast. It seemed to have the effect of soothing his nerves, for he settled himself down in the bed and re-assumed his former deprecating manner.
You wouldnt like it yourself, you know, doctor, he said: its enough to make any man a little queer in his temper. Im in for six months this time for assault, and very sorry I shall be to go out again, I can tell you. My minds at ease in here; but when Im outside, what with the government and what with Tattooed Tom, of Hawkesbury, theres no chance of a quiet life.
Who is he? I asked.
Hes the brother of John Grimthorpe, the same that was condemned on my evidence; and an infernal scamp he was, too! Spawn of the devil, both of them! This tattooed one is a murderous ruffian, and he swore to have my blood after that trial. Its seven year ago, and hes following me yet; I know he is, though he lies low and keeps dark. He came up to me in Ballarat in 75; you can see on the back of my hand here where the bullet clipped me. He tried again in 76, at Port Philip, but I got the drop on him and wounded him badly. He knifed me in 79, though, in a bar at Adelaide, and that made our account about level. Hes loafing round again now, and hell let daylight into me unless unless by some extraordinary chance some one does as much for him. And Maloney gave a very ugly smile.
I dont complain of him so much, he continued. Looking at it in his way, no doubt it is a sort of family matter that can hardly be neglected. Its the government that fetches me. When I think of what Ive done for this country, and then of what this country has done for me, it makes me fairly wild clean drives me off my head. Theres no gratitude nor common decency left, doctor!