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$2.3
\_(273cm
*CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
By the same Awthor
THE BOSS
12mo, cloth. Illustrated
Price, $1.50
THE PRESIDENT
12mo, cloth. Illustrated
Price, $1.50
THE SUNSET TRAIL
12mo, cloth, Illustrated
Price, $1.50
That squeak of warning, coupled with my
pistol, became with them the instant signal for retreat.

CONFESSIONS OF
A DETECTIVE
BY
ALFRED HENRY LEWIS
AUTHOR OF
"THE BOSS,” “THE PRESIDENT,” “THE SUNSET TRAIL,” ETC., ETC,
ILLUSTRATED BY E. M. ASHE
N E W Y O R. K.
A. S. BARNES & COMPANY
M D C C C C W I

CoPYRIGHT, 1906, By
As S. BARNES & COMPANY
All rights reserved
October
CONTENTS
CHAP. I
< & II
“ III
“ IV
© & V
“ VI
“ VII
CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
How I Beat Red Bob .
Thumping the Sidewalk
Scotty Unfolds Truths
District Leader McBulto
Mulberry Street
Sent into Exile
Silence is Golden,
THE WASHINGTON SQUARE MYSTERY
CHAP. I
& C II
CHAP. I
© & II
The De Sille Murder .
The Man With the Crutch
THE MAN WHO FLEW
The Tracks in the Snow
The Condor Cage
THE MURDER AT THE SANTA MARIE
CHAP. I
& 4 II
CHAP. I
& C II
“ III
“ IV
Madam Laurie
Strong-arm Mike .
THE STOLEN RED DIAMOND
The House Party .
Hon. Bideford Blake
The Loon on the Lake
The Red Diamond
I2
27
35
46
57
67
85
. 105
. 199
. 150
. 173
. 192
. 219
. 237
. 259
. 273
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
And I really learned many things.” . . . 21
‘That squeak of warning, coupled with my
pistol, became with them the instant signal for
retreat.” (Frontispiece.) . . . º . 28
“It was all trees and lanes and country roads
out there and as lonesome as a tomb.” . . 60
“Inspector Val helped him in which did not
please him.” te & © © © & . 128
“May Ilight a cigar * Inspector Val asked sweetly 157
“Stubble your gab,” whispered the brute faced
Creature e e e & g © gº . 203
“The big cut-glass candlestick near which we
were gathered, went crashing to the floor” . 230
Bang! went Mr. Blake's second barrel. This time
the canoe went keel up with a mighty splash . 267
CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
CoNFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
(A STUDY IN GRAFT.)
I.
HOW I BEAT RED BOB
A N idle man is always a talker. Six months
ago, before I retired, you couldn’t have
got a word out of me with a search war-
rant. Then I was about as conversational as
a clam; for I had my precinct to look after,
and was busy head, hands and feet. A lively
precinct, with we’ll put it ninety patrolmen, to
say nothing of sergeants, roundsmen, a brace or
two of plain clothes people, and a wardman or so,
is apt to keep one thinking; and at your age you
don’t have to be tipped off to it that, while a
party’s thinking, he can’t talk.
But since I’ve taken myself off the active list
and backed into retirement, my disposition seems
to have undergone a radical change. Where
before I was as wordless as an image, now I’m all
talk and grown as garrulous as an old lady over
her tea. There's one thing, however, for which
I’ll have to ask your forbearance in advance. If
now and then I lapse into slang, forget it; you
can’t be a copper nearby a third of a century, and
l
2 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
go from patrolman to Captain of Detectives
without acquiring speech-habits that, to state it
mildly, are bound to rub the paint and varnish off
what English you learned when you went to school.
Why did I retire Well, I didn’t have to-let
me say so much for my pride. There were a half
dozen reasons. For one thing I’ve made my bun-
dle, and can sit back and collect my rents, and
count my interest coming in, and all the while feel
sure that, if I’m rubbed off the police pay-roll
to-morrow, I’ll still have a roof to my head, a coat
to my back, and never miss an hour's sleep or a
meal of victuals. Yes, I’ve “made mine;” and
now I might just as well walk off to one side and
enjoy it while I’ve got—let's hope—twenty years
of life and health to call my own.
Also, there’s another argument. Every once
in a while an investigating committee comes but-
ting in from Albany, to go nosing on the trail of
police graft. Inasmuch as the complexion of my
politics—being all my life Tammany—isn’t the
Albany complexion, I’m regarded by these hay-
seed investigators as their natural prey. So far
I’ve played in luck; for I’ve met three of these
question-asking gangs, and succeeded in side-
stepping them every time. But you know the
old saw: The pitcher that goes often to the well
gets broken at last. The best behaved copper
HO/W I BEAT RED BOB 3
on the force, one who having paid his three hun-
dred dollars to become patrolman, his five hun-
dred to be made roundsman, his three thousand
to become detective sergeant, and his fifteen
thousand to call himself Captain of Detectives,
should be forgiven for saying that he has fairly
earned his promotions, might wake up some
bright morning and find that he's been investi-
gated once too often. There’s always that chance
out; and so, d'ye see, having gathered in my
fortune, and rounded off my heap, I held it the
part of wisdom, without waiting for any age-limit
to reach me, to pack in and quit. I’ll need full
twenty years anyway to get my morals on an even
keel, after playing thief taker for over thirty.
My going into the police business was accident
rather than design, and I may say that I became
a copper as the result of a breach of the peace.
You must know that as lad and young man I
was a bit of a scrapper, particularly in a rough
and tumble way. Born and brought up on the
East Side, I discovered at an early age that, by
the customs of that vigorous region, you must
either fight or stay in the house, and being of an
active, out-o'-door nature, of course I fought. I
showed too short in the reach to come by best
results as a boxer; but, thick set and strong as a
horse, I was precisely the build for a wrestler.
4 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
Moreover, for all my short reach, I could hit
straight and clean, and after I reached nineteen
I don’t think I ever landed squarely on a foe
without dropping him.
What was that breach of the peace by which I
won my shield It fell about in this fashion. It
was the day I reached twenty-one. The bully
of the Hook—Red Bob, they called him; he'd
fought three or four prize battles, and presumed
on it—found fault with me. As I recall, he took
umbrage at my clothes, which were new and
just out of the store. Red Bob expressed disdain
for my make-up, calling me a dude, and sundry
names that are worse, and by way of peroration
declared that I must buy the beer or fight.
Having at that time both a high temper and a
low cash balance—for the clothes broke me—
I said I’d fight. By way of showing my sincerity
I instantly struck my critic in the face, and then
seized and back-heeled him, throwing him into
a watering trough that stood convenient to the
purpose. That was all; following the bath,
Red Bob went away, dripping, vowing vengeance.
That night, after supper, I went up to the street
corner, which was the regular hang-out of that
coterie to which I belonged. One of my friends
informed me in a whisper that Red Bob was look-
ing for me with an eye of fire, and making blood-
HO/W I BEAT RED BOB 5
curdling threats. My friend advised a temporary
withdrawal from East Side society.
The suggestion didn’t suit my book. “Looking
for me, is he f* I said. “Let’s hope he’ll find me.
I am twenty-one to-day, and that makes me a
full-blown man. It’ll take somebody better than
a second rate prize-fighter to drive me off the
streets.”
Red Bob was promptly informed of my pride-
swollen pose by public spirited ones who, being
friends of both parties, did what lay in their power
to promote a row. To their disgust, however,
Red Bob never once came my way, and in the end
it was he and not I who kept off the street.
My doughty conduct on this Red Bob occasion
made a deep impression on Mugsey Jones.
Mugsey was an under-captain of the Tammany
leader of the district wherein I lived. Upon
hearing my Red Bob proclamation, he spoke up
as though by inspiration.
“You ought to be on the force,” says he. Then
after a moment: “Say! I’ll set the ball rolling
to-morrow.”
Setting the ball rolling took the form of sending
me a blank application for appointment as a
copper. I had never thought of turning crook-
catcher; my ambitions were not aroused to that
height. During those two or three years that
6 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
had fallen in since I left the Brothers’ School, I
was content to work in the drydock and do steve-
dore jobs along the river front. For all that, on
receiving the application, I filled it out, signed the
same and sent it to Mulberry Street. In due
time I was given notice to appear for the physical
and educational examinations. It was now I
sought the advice of Mugsey, who cheerfully
became my mentor.
“How about the educational examination ?”
queried Mugsey. “D'ye think you can make it?”
My answer was in the affirmative; for, strange as
it may sound, while at school I’d been sharp and
thorough with the books. Upon receiving my
reply, Mugsey the outspoken, was politely frank
enough to express surprise, saying that he had
supposed me densely ignorant.
Being cleared up concerning my education,
the astute Mugsey shook his head over the physical
examination, scanning me the while as though
counting my inches and pounds.
“Allowing the educational examination,” he
observed, “to fall right for you, still I’m leery of
the physical. That doctor is as honest as a clock;
we couldn’t square him any more’n we could
square a church.”
“Square him!” I retorted. “I’m as solid as
a brick switch shanty!” With this, I inflated my
HO/W I BEAT RED BOB 7
chest, and thumped until it boomed like a base
drum. tº
“It ain’t that!” returned Mugsey, cocking a
measuring eye at me, like a crow peering into a
bottle; “but you’re too heavy for your height.
How tall are you ?”
“Five feet, eight and a half.”
“And you weigh over two hundred!” he con-
tinued, looking at my stocky figure.
“Two hundred and seven.”
“For five feet, eight and one-half, the weight
limit fixed by the rules is one hundred and eighty-
five pounds.” Mugsey sighed dubiously, and
knit his brows. “If a fifty-dollar note would only
fix it!” he continued. “But, no; that doctor
party is on the level, and can’t be reached. Our
only show is to queer the scales.”
“And how are we to queer the scales, so as to
weigh me twenty-odd pounds lighter than I am f°
“My son, leave that to me,” said Mugsey, in
a manner of patronizing confidence. “Do you
think I’ve been weigher-in at the boxing tourna-
ments for over ten years, without tumbling to a
trick or two Many’s the 160-pound man I’ve
weighed into the I45-pound class, and a dozen
pair of eyes looking on. If that doctor sharp 'll
only let me—and I guess he will—get my hooks
on the scales, I’ll go bail you’ll be light enough.
8 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
And you can string your first year's salary as a
copper on it!”
The educational examination came first, and I
emerged therefrom with the impression that my
average would be up among the nineties. The
questions asked were of the usual cut-and-dried
fool variety—“What direction is Sidney from
the South Pole * “What is a straight line *
“What poet is called the ‘Bard of Avon P” and
so on; and while, for the life of me I couldn’t then,
and don't now see how the answers to them,
right or wrong, would shed a ray on my ability
to successfully cope with a fan-tan den in Doyer
Street, or pinch a poke-getter at the Ferry, I
didn’t pause to moot the point. On the docile
other hand, I faithfully wrote down that Sidney,
as well as every other place on the map, is north
of the South Pole; that a straight line is the
shortest distance between two points; that Shakes-
pere is sometimes called the Bard of Avon, and
turned in my papers to the clerk. As I did so,
that functionary regarded me keenly, and asked:
“Is that all P”
When I stated that it was, every question being
duly replied to, he seemed lost in surly thought.
After a pause, he snapped my papers together with
a rubber band, and filed them away in his desk.
“You’ll hear the result later,” says he.
HO/W I BEAT RED BOB 9
“When P” I asked.
“Can't say.”
Following this, he bent himself to writing in a
book with the air of one who has told all there is
to tell.
The physical examination came off at the sta-
tion. I was measured and weighed with the
paraphernalia provided by the State for measuring
and weighing those malefactors of whom it is
regarded as a good police thing to keep a descrip-
tion. The fertile Mugsey was with me; well for
me he was! That morning I had tilted the beam
of a Fairbanks platform scales, the property of a
grocer, at two hundred and six pounds. How
then was I to weigh in at one hundred and eighty-
five The puzzle lay too deep for me, albeit
Mugsey bade me be of good cheer.
“It all depends,” he remarked, “on me being
able to get to the scales; and that ought to be
easy.”
The medical examiner was a rusty old gentleman
whose heart was clearly in his work. He thumped
me and tested me, heart and lung and joint and
muscle, as though I were a horse and he about to
buy me. At the close he said:
“You’re sound enough; but, unless I miss my
surmise, you’re a mile too heavy for your height.
Since you’re such a hickory knot of a man, I
Io CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
might stretch the rule a little, and call you right
at one hundred and ninety pounds. But even
that leniency wouldn’t do you any good, since—if
I may trust my eyes—you'll go over two hundred.”
“You’re dead wrong, Docſ” broke in Mugsey,
who attended as a looker-on in Vienna; “you’re
'way off; I’ve had him on the scales a dozen times,
and he's never seen the day he touched one hun-
dred and eighty-five pounds.” Then to me:
“Jump on. We’ll soon settle it.”
Mugsey was chewing gum—a childish trick
that filled me with contempt. Until that moment
I’d never seen sign of the gum-chewing habit
about my friend, and this puerile working of his
under jaw dismayed me. I’d have told him my
opinion of gum-chewers, if the doctor hadn’t
been present. As it was I reserved the point;
I'd tell him when we were again in the street.
As I stepped upon the scales, I observed Mugsey
pass his hand across his lips with a light flourish,
and remove the offensive gum. This relieved
me; I thought that Mugsey himself had become
alive to the disgrace of gum, and took the removing
flourish to be a first step towards reform. How-
ever, I was not given time to dwell upon the
business, for Mugsey began sliding the weight
along the arm of the scales.
The doctor had his gaze fixed upon the scales, as
HOW I BEAT RED BOB II
Mugsey slowly inched the weight outward, until the
arm stood see-sawing in perfect balance. Mugsey
stepped back, and with a wave of his hand, said:
“D'ye see f*
The doctor took a long hard look; then he wiped
his spectacles and took another. There it was,
more to my amazement perhaps than his—one
hundred and eighty-two pounds!
“That'll do,” said the doctor at last, making
an entry of the figures in his book. As I stepped
off the platform he took a final glance at me.
“You must be hollow!” he exclaimed.
Once in the street and alone with Mugsey, I
demanded an explanation.
“You saw me chewing gum ?” he said. “As I
went to shove the weight, I took the gum into my
hand. There was also a silver quarter in my
hand. I pinched the gum and the silver piece
together, and then, as I took hold of the weight,
I fastened the silver piece to the bottom of it.
Adding that silver quarter to the weight made
more than twenty pounds difference on the
platform. As I’ve told you, I’ve sent many a
welter into the light weight class, at the boxing
tournaments, with that gum-and-quarter trick.”
“It’s strange!” I remarked. “I never saw a
trace of the quarter.”
“Of course not! Using the gum for glue, I stuck
12 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
it on the bottom of the weight. It was out of sight
all right. After the doctor made the entry, I recov-
ered my quarter again. Here it is,” and Mugsey
held up the silver piece with the gum still stick-
ing to it. “Let’s have a couple of cigars with it.”
It was a week later before I heard anything of
the educational examination, and then the word
came through Mugsey, who spoke it in a whisper.
“I supposed that Barney could fix it,” he said
ruefully. Barney was that particular Tammany
leader, to whom we owed political allegiance.
“It ain’t a square deal to make as hot a ward
worker as you put up the stuff every time you want
to pull off a play. But it’s no use; Barney says he's
up against it, and nothing goes but the dough.”
“What are you driving at f° I asked; for at
twenty-one I was over-innocent, with plenty to
learn, and Mugsey’s observations were foggy.
“What am I driving at f° he repeated. “Oh,
nothing! Only it’s going to take three hundred
dollars to beat that examination. Barney got
the hunch on the sneak that, if you wanted to
pass, you’d have to come up with the long green.
I might have known it! Those examination
wolves ain’t the sort to let anything get away!”
To make a long story short, I had to give up
the three hundred dollars; which, not having the
same, I borrowed of Barney. He was glad to
HO/W I BEAT RED BOB I3
find it for me; a Tammany leader has constant
need of the police, and can never lay too deeply
the bedplates of his friendship with them. Mugsey
took charge of the money, and got rid of it where
it would do the most good.
“Who gets those three hundred dollars ” I
asked Mugsey, when he came to tell me that I
had passed the examination with a rating of ninety-
SeVell.
Mugsey shrugged his experienced shoulders in a
non-committal way. “It goes four ways,” said
he at last; “two of 'em get a hundred, and two
get fifty each.”
“That’s what made the secretary act so queerly,”
I remarked.
“It’s all right,” returned Mugsey. “It not
only passes you, but sets you number four on the
eligible list. You'll be pounding the pavement
with a nightstick inside of thirty days; and, once
on a fat beat, you’ll soon pick up that three hun-
dred again.”
Mugsey was right and more than right concern-
ing the time; for, at the end of three weeks, I
received notice to report for duty. Detective
Of course I wanted to be a detective from the
jump. But you have to do a beat before you can
become a Central Office bull, same as a child
has to creep before it walks.
II
THUMPING THE SIDEWALK
T. Captain of the precinct to which I was
assigned for duty, was a round-faced, pros-
perous looking individual, and reckoned a
good policeman. He proved a stranger to me; for
I’d never been much out of my own neighborhood,
and the region to which I was sent lay a mile to
the south of my home. On my coming into the
station house, spruce in my new uniform, the
sergeant spoke up.
“The skipper wants to look you over,” said he,
and pointed to a door.
The Captain owned a brisk gray eye, and, as I
stood before him and clumsily saluted, I felt it
play over me, from hand to foot, like the point of
a rapier.
“Irish P” he asked.
“My people were Irish; I was born in New
York.”
“Ah! I see! Second crop Irish! It's the same
thing.”
If I had dared, I’d have interrupted him to say
that it was not the same thing; for I felt excessively
American, and not at all Irish.
14
THUMPING THE SIDEWALK 15
5
“Word comes to me,” went on the Captain,
“that you’ve got a bad temper, and are always
ready to fight. You must cut that out—your
temper and your fighting. You want in time, I
take it, to be roundsman, detective sergeant, cap-
tain of detectives. Very well! No one ever won pro-
motion with a club; no patrolman was ever made
a detective for breaking people's heads. Soft's the
word, and easy smooths the way! You may go.”
For thirty days I was sent out in company with
old, seasoned patrolmen, who knew the ropes
and could teach me my new trade. First and last
I was in the instructive company of a score of
these. Some of them were silent, sulky fellows,
who stumped on for hours with no word nor look
my way. Big Ben was one of your sour fellows.
After an hour of silence, on the evening I was
with him, I put in a word.
“I thought you were to teach me the business.”
Big Ben stopped under the glare of a lamp,
and stared at me with broad dislike.
“See here, young man!” he blurted out at last,
“I’m not taking babies to nurse. If you think
that I’m going to rock your cradle and warm your
milk for you, you’re fooled.”
“But the sergeant told me to go out with you.”
“Well, you’re out with me, ain’t you ? What
more do you want?”
I6 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
“I’d like to have you give me a few points
on police duty.”
“Oh, you want me to give you a lecture on your
duty as a policeman. Listen: I’ll tell you the
entire story in two lines:
“Hear, see, say nothing!
“Eat, drink, pay nothing!
“There you have the whole art and secret of it,
wrapped up in eight words. Follow those direc-
tions, and you’ll be a successful copper; go beyond
them, and you’ll get into trouble.”
Big Ben turned and resumed his stroll, and
never another word could I wring from him, only
growls and hateful grunts.
Scotty—though why “Scotty,” when he was as
Irish as the Rock of Cashel, is more than I can
explain—was the opposite of Big Ben. I was in
his affable company for two nights, and his talk
flowed like a mill-race.
“This,” Scotty said, pausing before a gin-mill
of the viler Bowery sort—“this is the ‘Sleeping
Car.’” He led me to a window on the side; the
weather being warm, and the window open, 1
could look inside. “The seats, you see,” Scotty
went on, “are rigged facing each other, same as
car seats. No; that's not the reason why it's
called the Sleeping Car. See those people *
and Scotty waved a vague paw towards the score
THUMPING THE SIDEWALK 17
of evil men and women who were sitting about.
“Every one of 'em's a crook; half of 'em's got
knockout drops or chloroform bottles in their
kecks right now. Let some sucker drop in, and
in two minutes one of ‘em ’ll be chinnin’ with
him, and in five he’ll have the peter in his
drink. In ten minutes from the time the guy
comes through the door, it's even money his head
is on the table, he’s dead to the world, and the
thief is going through him.”
“But I should think the others would see the
robbery come off.”
“Not one would rap. It isn’t honor; it's fear.
A squealer wouldn't last long. These mugs”—
pointing to the ruffianly gang inside—“would
croak a snitch in a holy second.”
“For all that, I’d suppose the place itself would
protect its customers. Where's the profit to the
place, if its customers are to be robbed of their
money the moment they come in f°
“That's all right; the joint gets its bit, d'ye
see! The dip, when he trims a sucker, whacks
up with the barman. In case of a collar—and
that wouldn’t happen often—the Sleeping Car
furnishes bail.”
“It’s a wonder such a den is allowed to run!”
“Don’t you believe it!” rejoined Scotty, em-
phatically. “The Sleeping Car is in right, both
18 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
ways from the jack. The Tammany leader
of this district uses it on election day to plant
floaters in; he’s voted as many as sixty from it
in a hard fight. Aside from that, it makes good
to the skipper of the precinct for three hundred
dollars a month; his wardman doesn’t have to
call twice at the Sleeping Car, put a bet on that!
It's Johnny-at-the-rathole with the dough, on
the first of every month. Which,” concluded
Scotty, “reminds me that it’s about time I was
getting mine. See here, I’ll put you wise to a
wrinkle.”
Scotty, in elucidating the wrinkle, took position
across the Sleeping Car’s front door. Now and
then he peered inside, as though looking for some
particular face. Commonly, however, he stood
with his back to the door, and glanced carelessly
up and down the street.
The pavements were much deserted, for it was
after midnight; only belated drunkards and night
prowlers were about. I noted Scotty’s maneuvers
without question or comment, curious to discover
the purpose behind them. Their effect, I could
see, was to fill both the customers and the bar
people of the Sleeping Car with great uneasiness.
There were signs going, and whispered conferences.
In the end, a rough, murderous-looking personage
lounged out, and pointed off up the street. As
THUMPING THE SIDEWALK 19
he brushed by to the rear of Scotty, he made a
slight movement of his hand.
“Well, let's be padding it,” said Scotty, care-
lessly, wheeling on me. “It’s about time the
roundsman came this way, and I’d sooner he'd
find me moving than standing still.”
As we took up our march, Scotty showed me a
ten-dollar bill.
“Half goes to you,” said he,
“Explain.”
“Didn't you see me make the touch fº
“Did they hand you that to move on f°
“Sure thing! My being planted there made 'em
nervous. They couldn’t tell what would come
off; so, to get rid of me, they slips me a tenner.”
“But the Captain! You told me the place stood
right with him—three hundred a month, you said!
Suppose they complain of you for poaching on
his preserves *
“Nothing doing!” retorted Scotty, easily. “The
skipper would only laugh and kick 'em out. I
don’t squeal when he gets his; he’s not goin’ to
roar when I get mine.”
That night Scotty pointed out eighteen or nine-
teen places where contributions, at proper, or as
he said, “decent” intervals, could be levied.
They were mostly rumshops with a weakness for
keeping open after lawful hours. Two gambling
2O CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
rooms and an opium den were of the number.
“Take a gambling joint,” explained the saga-
cious Scotty. “All you have to do is camp in
front, and warn everybody who looks cock-eyed
at it that it's turning a crooked game. Take my
word, you’ll not be there ten minutes before they
square you with a ten or a twenty-dollar note.”
Scotty was mightily amazed, though not in the
least disturbed, when I declined that money from
the Sleeping Car.
“It’s yours,” he urged.
“But I don’t want it.”
Scotty laughed long and heartily. “I’m on
he cried at last. “You’re a new cop, and have a
notion of doing what you call ‘your duty.’ You’ll
get over such pipe dreams. I used to have those
visions once; but that was long ago, before I
woke up.”
When I look back on those earlier apprentice
hours, it is curious to reflect, that never a patrol-
man with whom I went out, offered me a least
valuable hint of my duty. Some, as I’ve explained,
were sullen, like Big Ben; they told me nothing,
showed me nothing. Others, like Scotty, showed
me much and told me a deal; that is, they showed
me where the money was, and told me how to
get it. Scotty was the only one who offered to
split any money with me; the others contented
122
"And I really learned many things.”

THUMPING THE SIDE WALK 21
themselves with, as they phrased it, “putting me
wise.” I offered no criticism, but tried to appear
grateful for the pains they took with my education.
And I really learned many things. I discovered
for one matter, that a man's standing in local
politics was the measure of that man’s franchise
to commit crime. The control of two or three
votes entitled one to be noisily drunk, and brawl
within certain limits. Higher up the ladder,
there were heads of giant associations or gangs,
men who could swing a thousand votes. These
—using reasonable discretion in picking victims—
were, fairly speaking, licensed to commit murder.
There are two hundred people in New York—
I could take you to them—each of whom has killed
his man. Not one was punished. One and all
they are factors in politics, and murder beneath
the protecting pinion of the machine.
Also, speaking of what in those early callow
pin-feather days I learned, I fell to the fact—to
employ a colloquialism—that, of ten men who seek
positions on the police force, nine at least, are
moved of no honest thought of duty. Their
purpose is not to prevent crime, but to perpetrate
it; they put on the blue, not to protect, but prey
upon the community.
The lodestar of such is graft. I, let me say in
my own defense, was not one of these. When I
22 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
first belted on a nightstick, and pinned a police
shield to my blouse, I owned in my muggy foggy
East Side fashion certain tall ideals. These latter
were afterwards diminished and dimmed, as it
were, of their original white splendor. How far
this diminishing and this splendor-dimming should
be charged against me, you shall presently judge.
Sometimes, in moments self partial and egotistical,
I wonder if the fault were not, when all is said,
the public's fault. But I must not fall to moral-
izing.
Graduating from my police leading strings, I
one day found myself a full-fledged member of
the force, with a beat of my own to patrol. My
first night of duty as a full-grown copper was
made memorable, I recall, by a visit from my
old enemy, Red Bob. Nor had that indurated
character come to extend congratulations; rather
his visit was for purposes of contumely and insult.
Being somewhat gone in drink, Red Bob—
who was a pillar of politics, and knew it—gave
me harsh words.
“I’ve got you, you lobster!” quoth Red Bob,
in a kind of victory of drunken malice, “where I
want you. You're a cop now, d'ye see, an’
you’ve something to lose. That’s where I get the
high ground. Now, if you give me any lip, I’ll
push a button or two and have you sent out to
THUMPING THE SIDEWALK 23
Harlem. And, as for pinching me or knocking
me about, lay a hand to my collar, an’ I’ll take
you in on charges an' have you broke.”
Much more said Red Bob, to the same offensive
effect; and a worst feature, the one hardest of
all to bear, was that what he spake was true.
My going on the force had put me in his power,
not him in mine; for he had conquered quite
enough standing in politics, to be equal to at
least half of what he threatened. The machine
had control in Mulberry Street; it could do what
it pleased with me, since it could do what it
pleased with the force. Red Bob, on his side,
was, compared to me a free moral or rather
immoral agent. The machine needed his foul
aid, and must humor him.
Thinking these things, I kept my tongue between
my teeth and my hands to myself, while Red Bob
scoffed me. I began, in my hot chagrin, to realize
how helpless beneath the heel of politics were the
police. Not that it was my first lesson; for once
before I had burned my unwise fingers on a
politician. That was during my novitiate, and
while walking with Big Ben.
The story is too long. Suffice it that the poli-
tician—as much a stranger to me, he was,
as would have been Prester John—fell lawfully
into my clutch; and, since Big Ben gave me no
24 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
adverse counsel, I was for running him in. It
was the roundsman himself who saved me.
Coming up, he took the politician, and put him
tenderly into a cab and sent him home. Then
he gave me a jacketing that I shall not soon forget.
He paused in his harangue long enough to con-
gratulate me on the fact, that the eminent one I
had so ignorantly handled was not in a condition,
either to bear me in mind or remember the ignomin-
ious incident of his arrest. I was lucky, he said,
for had it been otherwise, it would have spelled
my official taking off.
“He’s the leader of his district,” cried the
outraged roundsman, dramatically, “and, only
he's so full that he won’t remember about you
necking him, you wouldn't last as long as a keg
of beer at a sangerfest. He’d have your buttons
off before to-morrow night! Better be sure, next
time, who you're lagging, or the first thing you
know you’ll dig up more snakes than you can kill.”
All this ran in my mind, and served somewhat
to keep my hands off Red Bob. Also, I recalled
the Captain's remark, when he spoke of my tem-
per, and warned me that no one ever clubbed
himself into promotion. Observing my forbear-
ance, Red Bob redoubled his insults, and when I
walked away kept close at my heels, doing his
vicious best to provoke me.
THUMPING THE SIDEWALK 25
It was then I began, because of the scoundrel's
persistency, to smell a plot, and to think that the
affair was not altogether chance-blown. This
view was confirmed, when a voice across the way
shouted:
“Settle the bull, Red! Go in and cook him!”
I might add that “settle” and “cook,” in the
language of the Five Points, always mean “kill”
and never mean anything else.
It only needed that cry from across the way to
set fire to me. I saw, in a word, that I was to be
attacked; and, having some native spunks of
military genius in my composition, resolved to be
beforehand in the business. I slowed up, and
let Red Bob approach. He came quite close to
my back, pouring forth epithet and threat. I got
a flash at him over my shoulder, with the tail of
my eye. Measuring the distance, I suddenly
wheeled and struck him on the point of the jaw.
He fell; as he did so, from out the shadows, here
and there—from the rear as well as over the way—
a dozen of his gang came running. I caught the
dull glimmer of a pistol, where a nearby street
lamp cast a ray along the barrel. With that, I
pulled my own; for, if I was to be “cooked,” I
was set to do some “cooking” in return.
As the gang closed in about me, front, rear and
flank, Red Bob began with difficulty to struggle
26 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTI WE
to his feet. I took a grip on his shoulder with
my left hand, while with the other I thrust forward
my pistol in the faces of the oncoming gangsters.
If I had been a life insurance company I should
not have looked on my life as a good risk. Still
it was a better risk than was the life of Red Bob.
My determination was taken, iron-hand, to whip
a bullet into his recreant brain with the first note
of actual war. One of the gang must have been
a mind-reader; for, as though I had spoken my
thoughts to him, he cried out to his fellows:
“Hold off! He's pulled his cannister; an’ if
you crowd him he's framed it up to do Red.”
CHAPTER III
SCOTTY UNFOLDS TRUTHS
T the warning cry by the telepathic one,
A the gang began backing into those shad-
ows and secret places from which they
had emerged. Possibly, the prompt production
of my Colt's-38 had somewhat to do with their
disappearance; for your true gangster is never
one to meet the iron face to face.
In ancient days there was a party—Pythagoras
was the name, I think, though I’ll not be sure I’ve
got his number right at that—who taught how
men’s souls, before they were men’s souls, served
as the souls of animals. Also, he said that, if
you’d sharpen your eyes a bit, you could, in look-
ing a man over, tell whether his soul had been a
sheep’s soul, or a lion's soul, or a horse's soul,
and so on. Now I won’t say there’s anything
in the theory, for it's altogether off my mental
beat. What I will say is that if old Pythagoras
was right, then the soul of every gangster used
aforetime to be the soul of a rat. Ferocious,
cowardly, cruel, hungry, unclean!—creatures born
to haunt the sewers and infest the cellars of exis-
27
28 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
tence!—mere vermin of darkness, with a fear of
light!—those gangsters whom I faced were rats,
human rats. Being rats, that squeak of warning,
coupled with my pistol, muzzle flush in their faces,
became with them the instant signal for retreat.
In a moment I was alone with Red Bob.
Being alone, I yanked Red Bob onto his feet.
Partly from the blow, and partly from the red
liquor under his belt, he was in a fog. All of a
blurr, he didn’t know where he was or how he
came to be there.
This sort of thing is common with drunken
men. Let a party, whose skin is soaked full of
whiskey, receive a tap from a nightstick, or get
jolted out by any other route, and a first insensi-
bility runs off into a drunken slumber. Some-
times you can’t fetch your man around for hours.
No, there’s no danger; but you have to give the
whiskey time to die away.
As I landed Red Bob on his feet, I observed a
copper coming across. It was Scotty, whose beat
happened to be on the other side of the street.
“What are you goin’ to do with him f* asked
Scotty.
“Take him to the cooler.”
“Better throw him loose. There’s nothin’ in
runnin’ him in. You’ll only make enemies and
lose sleep.”
SCOTTY UNFOLDS TRUTHS 29
“What do you mean **
“And you ask that question ?—you a Tamm-
many worker : There's the election for mayor
this fall, ain’t there McBulto, who’s leader of
Red Bob's district, is goin’ to need him, ain’t he
Do you sppose McBulto 'll stand for this collar *
“It’s the magistrate, not McBulto, who has the
say.”
“Magistrate!” and Scotty's scorn was unmis-
takable. “The magistrate has not been put on
the bench to throw down Tammany Hall.”
“Why,” I responded, indignantly, “this fel-
low”—here I shook Red Bob-ºfollowed me half
the length of my beat, looking for trouble. He
had his gang with him; ready to shoot, they were,
for one at least had a gun.”
“It’s four for one that every thug of 'em had a
gun.”
“It’s the same odds, also, that Red Bob brought
them here to murder me. I’d have been justi-
fied in sending a bullet through his head.” Here
I shook Red Bob, whereat he whined profanely.
“Why didn't you do it?” demanded Scotty.
“No one would have objected then. Tammany
is practical, and makes no fights for dead ones.
If a man's dead, he's dead; and there's nothing
for Tammany in kicking up a fuss over him with
live ones. No; if you'd only croaked him, you'd
30 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
be all right. But you didn’t, d'ye see. Here he
is, alive and kicking, and capable of making votes,
for or against Tammany, this fall. Remember,
hereafter, that for this sort of student it's the
morgue or nothin’. No key will keep them, no
station house hold them, no magistrate convict
them. Your one chance to put them away, so
they’ll stay, is to put them to bed with a shovel.”
“Then your advice is to kill!” said I, aghast
at the turgid character of Scotty’s counsel.
“My advice is never to forget that a copper's
only friend is himself. Put courts and coolers
out of your calculations, in dealing with the Red
Bob breed. The moment one of 'em gives you
an openin', skip Blackwell’s and make it Wood-
lawn.”
Following this long speech on the powers,
privileges, and perils of a copper, Scotty crossed
again to his beat, leaving me with Red Bob to
take in or turn loose, as by the light of his wise
advice, seemed the better thing to do. On my
side, there was no hesitation. Scotty meant well;
none the less I should do my duty, which was
clearly, as I beheld it, to put Red Bob behind the
bars, and take the worst that either he or McBulto
might send.
Red Bob, since that blow on the chin, had
wholly changed his tune to no tune at all. He
SCOTTY UNFOLDS TRUTHS 31
was no longer the noisy, threatening rough; but
sluggish and sullen, with nothing to say. Dulled
by his cups, and still dazzled by my blow, I don’t
think he even then owned any understanding of
what had happened to him. He could stand well
enough, and walk in a leaden-footed way; so I
gripped him by the right cuff and started him sta-
tionward.
That “right cuff” business is one of the earliest
police tricks you're taught. Always take your
man's right cuff in your left hand. That puts
you a little to the rear of him, and on his right
side—a situation that gives you eighty points the
start of him, in case he shows fight or tries to beat it.
Red Bob and I started for the station, proces-
sion arranged as I’ve described. We hadn’t
gone two blocks when, without a syllable of argu-
ment, he lay stolidly down on the sidewalk, and
began to snore. Nor would he yield to com-
mands, shakings, or gentle kicks. He had gone
as far as he would by his own consent.
For a moment I feared that my right-hander
to the jaw had hurt him more than I supposed.
The least of thought, however, dissipated that
notion. I knew all about left-hooks, and right-
hand smashes, and was certain that Red Bob had
taken no permanent harm from me, No; it was
32 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
mere whiskey sleep, brought on by his drinks and
the jolt I’d given him.
Coming to this conclusion, I drew my night-
stick—we carried them in our belts, not in our
fists, in that far hour—and made ready to give
my gentleman the “hot foot.” In the days or
rather nights of my novitiate, I’d become learned
in certain mysteries, among others, the “hot foot.”
It was by watching Big Ben, if I remember, that
this invaluable secret of the beats was obtained.
Given a man, unconscious by virtue or rather
vice of rum, and you can restore him to a liveliest
habit, both of tongue and locomotion, make him
walk like a Rowell and talk like a Choate, by
smartly beating the soles of his feet. This basti-
nado is performed with your nightstick. Ten
shrewd blows, from a sound nightstick, will put life
into a corpse. It is infallible for restoring drunken
men, whose mental lights have been drowned in
drink.
Red Bob was flat on his back, dead to the world,
snoring like a tramp's lodging house. Raising
my nightstick, I whacked him, first on one sole,
then on the other. Under this scientific treat-
ment he was beginning to grumble and stir when,
as I bent over him to seize him by the shoulder and
lift him to his feet, I was struck a stunning blow
across the base of the skull, I caught the flourish
SCOTTY UNFOLDS TRUTHS 33
of the arm of my assailant too late to save myself.
One of Red Bob's gang had crept upon me, gum-
shoe fashion, and dealt me a blow with a sandbag.
It was an effective blow; the artist who dealt the
same was not without a working knowledge
of his weapon. My wits were darkened; I reeled
forward and fell across Red Bob.
My light couldn’t have been out more than a
second or two; for my first knowledge of succeed-
ing events was hearing the bang! bang! bang!
of a revolver, fired three times. It was Scotty's
pistol; he was standing over me, slamming away
at the fleeing huddle of gangsters.
It’s easily explained. The gang followed,
as I bore Red Bob away, slipping along in the
shadows. Where the sandbagger crept upon me
was midway between two lamps, and a darkest
spot along the street. Scotty, who was keeping
an eye on me from over the way, saw the assault,
and got to me before I was dealt with beyond that
first, dull, stunning blow.
“And it is quite as well I did,” remarked Scotty,
when I was again on my feet—tottering a trifle,
to be sure. “They’d have handed you your medi-
cine for keeps.”
Red Bob had been able to travel with the rest;
my “hot foot” treatment was so far successful.
I asked Scotty, as he examined my neck at the
34 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
roots of the hair to measure the extent of my
injuries, whether or no he shot any of the gang.
“I’m afraid not,” he replied, soberly; “but
better luck next time. It was over-dark, and I
had to shoot quick. Besides, they were dodgin'
between buildings, duckin’ down passage-ways,
and generally speaking makin’ for cover wher-
ever they could find it. I did the best I could.”
“And pretty well for me, too!” I cried. “Now
that I’m getting a grip on my senses, I begin to
see that I’d have been a dead man but for you.”
My head was buzzing like a hive of bees, and
Scotty said that I’d better go home. He engaged
to report the case to the roundsman. There was
nothing else for it, home I went; and so ended
my first night of regular duty as a full-fledged
officer of the police,
IV
DISTRICT LEADER. McBULTO
got a harder tap than I supposed. My
resolution had been taken to arrest Red Bob
the moment I was out. Also, I’d set my heart on
finding the sandbagger; from what he did to me
it was obvious that the city would be safer with
that mechanic under lock and key.
Not that my decision to take in Red Bob, and
his sandbag-wielding friend, had been arrived at
without opposition. Forseeing some such move
on my part, McBulto had been busy. He came
to me with Barney MeGinn who, as I’ve ex-
plained, was the leader of my own home dis-
trict.
“Red Bob was dead wrong,” said McBulto,
soothingly; “he sees it, an’ says so himself. We
want you to let the thing drop.”
“Gentlemen,” I returned, after the pair, first
one, then the other, had recited the political neces-
sities of the case, and the many election reasons
why Red Bob should go scathless—“gentlemen,
we might as well come to an end. You can't
I' was days before I could go about, for I’d
35
36 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
square this. I don't propose to let up on those
villains. Red Bob and his gang have done their
best to kill me; and I’m not going to drop it for
the sake of a handful of votes in McBulto’s or
any other district.”
McBulto stuck his hands into his pockets, and
walked off, wearing, meanwhile, a deeply injured
manner. He flung a word of reproach to Bar-
ney:
“Fine discipline you keep in your district!”
“Now d'ye see!” cried Barney, who had re-
mained with me—“now d'ye see, you’re putting
me in a hole with McBulto. He’s an alderman;
an’ this racket is goin’ to lose me a contract.” I
ought to explain that Barney was in the profitable
habit of taking contracts to dig sewers and do
paving for the city. “That's what it will!” he
continued, with the air of an ill-used saint. “It’ll
cost me thousands, see if it don't!—your playin'
stubborn will! It's a dandy game to give me,
after me gettin' you onto the force!”
“You get me onto the force!” I repeated, with
the utmost scorn. “How did you get me onto
the force f*
“How Didn't I cap for you, an’ square you
with the examinin’ board Didn't I stake you to
the three hundred dollars ”
“You’ll get ’t back.”
DISTRICT LEADER McBULTO 37
“But I don’t want it back!” said Barney, soft-
ening his manner and lowering his tone. “I’ll
tell you what: Call the thing off, let Red Bob
alone, an’ you don’t owe me a splinter. Come,
now!” and Barney’s voice was almost coaxing.
It was no use; I would do my duty by the pub-
lic and myself. I would get my man, or rather
my men; for I was bound to have that sand-
bagger. On receiving my ultimatum, Barney
went his way with a troubled face. McBulto
was a principal Tammany figure; no marvel
Barney preferred not to offend him.
It was necessary, now that my man had slipped
through my fingers, to get a warrant; it no longer
remained with me to run Red Bob in on sight. I
can make this part short; my only excuse for
making what has gone before as long as I have
is that I wanted to show you how thoroughly a
copper, in all he does or tries to do, is up against
the machine.
Now, when I must get a warrant, I went—
according to routine—to the office of one of the
magistrates. The name of this justice-monger
was Skinn—a good name! My first experience
was with his clerk; his name was Lurker.
Lurker, who was a plausible, soft-spoken indi-
vidual, did his best to talk me out of a warrant.
He said I lacked evidence; that I was hurting
38 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
myself; that I’d better wait. Those are speci-
mens of a multitude of reasons which the oily
Lurker gave for staying me. I insisted; of course
I could see the hand of Barney and McBulto in
Lurker’s reluctance to issue a warrant. On
finding me stiff, Lurker said that before he would
give me a warrant, I must tell my story to Magis-
trate Skinn.
“If he says issue the warrant,” observed Lur-
ker, “I’ll do it.”
The Magistrate’s court was in session; he
paused in the midst of a hearing, and after a whis-
pered talk with Lurker turned to me with a frown.
He snapped out half a dozen questions; I made
my story brief and to the point.
“As nearly as I understand you,” roared Skinn,
when I had done, “some man, whom you call
“Red Bob’—I wonder what name he’d give you—
spoke to you while you were on duty, and you
felled him to the ground. When citizens and
bystanders gathered about, to learn the reason of the
outrage, you drew a pistol. Later, when—as you
say—you were dragging your victim to the station, or
rather when—as the fact is—he was lying uncon-
scious upon the sidewalk and you were beating
him with a club, some person, name unknown, struck
you on the head with what you think was a sand-
bag. Now I don't know how much of an expert
DISTRICT LEADER McBULTO 39
you are with sandbags, however, it’s quite likely,
from your looks, that you are perfectly familiar
with them. For all that you may be mis-
taken; my own view is that you are. I should
rather think you were struck by a cane, in the hands
of some honest citizen, who sought only to prevent
you from clubbing a prostrate man to death. You
may go, sir! Your request for warrants is re-
fused. A warrant ought to be issued for you,
rather than for ‘Red Bob,” as you call him. Go
back to your duty; and be careful how you come
into this court again. You are dangerous a man,
to be wearing the badge of a police officer, and I
shall keep a lookout for you, sir.”
That was all; there was no more to say, no
more to do. As I reached the street, I saw McBulto
and Barney making for the nearest grog shop to
refresh themselves. I didn’t need this exhibition
to know that they had been beforehand with the
impartial Skinn.
As I walked along, wondering if I hadn’t better
chuck the whole thing and resign my position,
Mugsey overtook me. Mugsey was firm that I
should not resign.
“There's nothin’ in it,” said Mugsey, meaning
the resignation; “only for the sake of your job,
take a tumble to yourself. After this, if Barney
40 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
or McBulto wants anything, no matter what it
is, let ’em have it.”
“But my duty as a policeman!” I exclaimed.
“Forget it!” cried Mugsey, disgustedly. “What's
the use of givin' us a song and dance about your
duty, and an election comin’ on! If every duck
was to go chasin' up and down, talkin’ about his
duty, Tammany would stand a fine show of cap-
turin’ the town—I don’t think.”
Back to my beat I went, ruminating this my
first real lesson in what police duty was expected
of me. If it didn’t teach me corruption, it at
least taught me caution, and I began to be more
careful as to whom I took by the collar. On two
or three occasions of mere window-smashing, or
drunken rows in the street, I contented myself
with putting the glass-smashers to flight, or
separating the brawlers—a forebearance due en-
tirely to those places in politics which the delin-
quents held—and the critical Scotty said that I
was learning.
“You’ll come out all right,” observed Scotty,
speaking in a spirit of compliment; “you’re
learnin’ the ropes fast.”
Red Bob and his gang, be it said, gave me a
broad berth; I never saw one of them for months.
Doubtless, this absence of direct temptation had
somewhat to do with that perfect prudence which,
DISTRICT LEADER. McBULTO 41
ollowing my lecture by Magistrate Skinn, I
brought to bear upon my work.
Being new to my trade, I naturally hungered
and was athirst to make arrests. I went forth to
my beat like a hunting dog to the field, eager to
advance my record for efficiency and zeal.
There are myriads of moonshine whiskey stills
on the East Side. Sure! as we sit conversing,
there are two hundred in full blast. I could take
you to twenty of 'em in an hour. Why! there
are six hundred saloons, anywhere east of the
Bowery and south of Fourteenth Street, that
never buy a gallon of bonded liquor. They keep
a lot of old barrels and bottles for a stall, that is,
a show; but never a cent of revenue has their
bugjuice paid.
To show you: There are joints over about the
Hook where you can get a milk punch, a stiff
one, too, for three cents. And if you’re Irish
they’ll throw in an olive on account of local color.
Moonshine whiskey The East Side drinks noth-
ing else. Made of potatoes mostly, with a little
grain.
It's distilled anywhere, everywhere, in old
dwellings, in tenement houses. Certainly, the
neighbors know; but they’re not going to knock.
If one of 'em was to inform on a moonshiner, he’d
get beaten to a jelly some dark night, or used
42 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
worse. What I say of moonshine whiskey, goes
for cigars, too. There are cords on cords of
cigars that never hear of a revenue stamp, rolled
in the regions I’ve indicated, and sold from old
boxes on the sly.
Being hot to make arrests, I started in to catch
moonshiners. It’s not a hard assignment; espe-
cially when they’re so thickly planted. I used to
hunt 'em by scent—used to nose 'em out. Take
any quiet morning, about four o'clock—that is
the busiest hour for them—with the air lying
heavy and dead, and, as you walk the East Side
streets, you’ll get the odor of new whiskey being
made, as plainly as you smell drugs in a drug
store. Having gotten a whiff, as I prowled my
beat, I’d clamber up a fire-escape, or steal along
a hall, or creep across a roof, until I’d located the
still and collared my chemist.
As a first move, I’d lock up my prisoner in the
station, and the next day notify the national
authorities. As evidence, I’d confiscate the
“worm” or some other part of the illicit still's
economy, and turn it in with the malefactor. I
suppose, first and last, I collared forty of these
moonshiners.
One day the sergeant took me to task. “Don’t
bring in any more!” he said. “You’re not paid
to do police duty for the government. This
DISTRICT LEADER McBULTO 43
department has something for you coppers to do,
besides chasin' up fire-escapes, slippin’ over tin
roofs, fallin’ down airshafts, or sneakin’ in and
out o' halls. If the United States wants these
moonshine mugs, why, then, let the United States
send for 'em. But there’s nothin’ in it for us;
it’s not our love affair.”
The invaluable, Scotty likewise, was moved for
my instruction: “You’re like a cub bear,” said
Scotty; “your troubles are all before you. But
that's no reason for going off your beat to find
trouble. Now, as long as you’re a policeman,
forget there’s a United States.” It should be
remarked that Scotty’s advice was usually in
favor of forgetting some man or thing. “Besides,”
he concluded, “no one wants these moonshiners
pinched. We don’t want ’em; the gov’ment
don't want ’em; an' there you be!”
There was a circumstance not a day old, that,
taken in connection with Scotty's last assertion,
set me thinking. I have explained how, when
I took a moonshiner, I always took his still, or a
vital part of it, and turned it over to the govern-
ment with my man. The baffling circumstances
was this: Only the day before, upon arresting a
moonshiner—indeed, it was the particular arrest
which drew forth the condemnatory instruc-
tions of my sergeant—I captured with him a
44 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
“worm” that I had confiscated but two weeks
before. That identical “worm” had been left
as “evidence” with the government. And yet,
here it was again! How did the moonshiner get
it Plainly, it had been returned to him. I sub-
mitted the puzzle of it to Scotty. That sagacious
officer listened and looked wise.
“And you want to know what that means ?”
“Yes.”
“It means that them revenue sharps are graftin’
same as us,” retorted Scotty, ungrammatical but
clear. “As I say, they don’t want these moon-
shiners.”
While the sergeant found fault with me for my
anti-moonshine ardor, I was a warm favorite with
him none the less. He, as well as his two fellow-
sergeants, beamed on me in rude approval.
There are, I should explain, three sergeants in
a precinct. Each is on the station house desk eight
hours, and off sixteen. I was a common favorite
with the three. Nothing but good words and
genial grins did I get from them.
This friendly approval of my three sergeants
gave me a glow. It’s worth while to pound a beat,
when one has such kindly and appreciative supe-
riors. With that thought in my heart, I would
redouble my zeal, and run in wrongdoers by the
dozen. The urbanity and bland endorsement
DISTRICT LEADER McBULTO 45
of the sergeants, for me and all that unto me apper-
tained, seemed to grow with the procession of my
2IIeStS.
As against this happy condition, my rounds-
man hated me. It was more than disapproval,
more than fault-finding; it was hatred. Also,
I could feel that he was hunting me, and haunting
me, to catch me in some violation of the rules. I
laid this enmity of the roundsman to the malign
McBulto.
“He’s one of MeBulto’s men,” thinks I, “and
has been told to catch me napping, prefer charges,
and “break’ me.”
That did very well until I made inquiries, and
learned that, so far from being McBulto's man,
my roundsman had never met that potentate, and
didn’t live within three miles of his principality.
And yet I could see that he was after me to take
me wrong. More than once he stood me up on
my beat, and “roasted” me for some alleged
deficiency in my uniform, or clumsiness when I
saluted. I spent my spare time wondering what
it meant.
V
MULBERRY STREET
NE night my beat ran from the Bowery to
De Lancy, to Allen, to Broom, and
thence back to the Bowery. It was a
lively beat, with plenty going on, and ten o’clock
—the hour I have in mind—was the liveliest hour
of all.
Now you may or may not know that a patrol-
man, walking his beat, always travels with his
right shoulder to the wall, and that a roundsman,
making his rounds, travels with his left shoulder
to the wall. This order never varies, and has
the police merit of bringing patrolman and rounds-
man face to face, as they go about their duties.
On this particular night, hearing some row break
out in a barroom I had passed, I wheeled to go
back. This, for perhaps a distance of one hun-
dred feet, brought me with my left shoulder to
the wall—the reverse of what should have been,
assuming nothing on hand but the quiet walk-
ing of my beat.
It was the chance my roundsman waited for.
He happened to be within touching distance,
46
MULBERRY STREET 47
when the outbreak in the barroom called me back.
I hadn’t proceeded twenty feet, when he shouted
after me to halt.
“What's here ** he demanded, in a hard, trium-
phant voice. “Don’t you know how to walk a
beat, yet P’
At this, I directed his attention to the cries, and
the crashing of tables and chairs, not one hundred
feet from us.
“I was going,” I said, “to see about that dis-
turbance.”
To my amazement he declared that he heard
nothing. More and worse, he insisted that all
was peace and quiet, and no row going on. Even
while he talked, the riot ended, and all was as still
as a church.
“I hear no riot,” said he; “and moreover
there isn't any and wasn't any. You'll go to
Mulberry Street to-morrow, my man, to answer
charges. Now, 'bout face! and walk your beat
as a beat should be walked.”
There was a lump in my throat, and a mad
desire in my heart to rush upon that lying tyrant
of a roundsman, with all my ten talons, and, in
the parlance of the police, “neck him.” But I
had grown too cool and too wise for that, even
with my few months of service. Without a word,
I saluted and went on down my beat, leaving him
48 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
leering after me, an evil smile wreathing his face.
The beat of the faithful Scotty—whose wis-
dom. I had learned to respect, if not to follow—
touched mine on the Allen Street side. Three
hours later, when the roundsman was safe in the
far corner of the precinct, I called to Scotty. I
proposed for his consideration the twin phenomena
of the sergeants’ friendship, and the roundsman's
hate.
Scotty said the mystery was easy of solution, or
that rather there was no mystery. “The ser-
geants,” explained Scotty, “like you because you
make two collars for any other cop's one.”
“What should that have to do with it **
“Do with it? Why, man! you're their bread-
winner! Half the blokes give bonds—profes-
sional bondsman, to be sure, for the sergeants
won’t send out for any other. That's ten dollars
for every bond, as a fee to the professional bonds-
man; and the noble sergeant on the desk gets
five of it every time. That's his graft—his per-
quisite. How many arrests did you make last
month P’’
“Over ninety,” I replied, after overhauling
my memory.
“Ninety. Well, d'ye see, full half of 'em gave
bail. There’s two hundred and twenty-five dol-
lars the sergeants split up off you last month.
MULBERRY STREET 49
Pretty good from one policeman, I don’t think!
If every other copper in this precinct did as well,
them sergeants would be livin' on Fifth Avenoo,
an’ comin’ to duty in a broo’m. No wonder
they love you! Now I only turned in nine arrests,
which may or may not be the reason why I'm not
a hot favorite with the sergeants. Would you
believe it, they even accused me of settling cases
by my lonesome!” and Scotty's mustache twitched
cynically at the corners.
“Let that go for the sergeants,” said I; “but
it doesn’t explain why the roundsman should
hate me,’ and follow me, and try to lay me by the
heels with charges.”
“Let me ask you another question,” returned
Scotty. “Perhaps this tangle of hatred is as easy
to unravel as that other tangle of friendship.”
“Go on,” said I.
“Have you staked the roundsman to any dough
yet?”
“No.”
“I thought so! That “No!’ explains all.”
“What are you aiming at f°
“What a come-on you'd make!” exclaimed
Scotty, pausing in admiration of my innocence.
“It’s a wonder some one don’t sell you a gold
brick, odd hours, as you walk your beat! This is
the proposition: I’ve showed you where the ser- .
50 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
geants get their dough; now tell me, where does
the roundsman get his f"
“I don’t know.”
“No, of course not! Well, he depends on us
coppers, d'ye see. You saw me work the Sleeping
Car for a tenner one night, when I was showing
you the ropes All right; here you are, holding
down the juiciest beat in the precinct—Bowery,
Delancy, Allen, and Broom! Let me put another
question: What can you work it for 2–How
much is it worth to you ?”
“If you mean in the Sleeping Car way, not a
dollar.”
“Not a dollar! And every month, mind you,
you ought to be coppin’ off at least two hundred
plunks. That's all there is between you and the
roundsman. He expects you every month to
squeeze this beat for two hundred bones, and slip
him twenty for his. You haven’t done it; and
he just thinks you’re getting the stuff an’ keepin’
it.”
“Is that it!” I cried, heatedly. “If that's
the reason the roundsman is making me trouble,
he can keep on making it. I don’t propose, in
order to fatten his bank-roll twenty a month, to
turn blackmailer.”
“Sh-h-h-h!” and Scotty held up a discouraged
finger. “Never say ‘blackmailer.” It isn't pro-
MULBERRY STREET 51
fessional; and it isn't necessary. All I tell you
is that you and the roundsman will never be recon-
ciled, until he gets that monthly twenty. And
why not f° Scotty raised his voice, as the magni-
tude of my imbecility seemed to strike him a-fresh.
“Here's a gold mine; and you won’t work it!
It's an outrage!—a shame! It's subversive of
the very spirit of the police! The best beat in
the precinct goin’ to seed, for want of cultivation 1
Man, heaven’s favors are wasted on you! You
might as well be walking a beat in the country
with the cows, which is precisely the place and
the duty—or I’m no prophet—to which the rounds-
man means to have you sent.”
The next afternoon I was ordered to report to
the senior Inspector, and answer charges pre-
ferred by the roundsman. I went over to Mul-
berry Street wondering what the charges would
be, and resolved to ask a continuance of the
hearing. I wanted to confer with Mugsey—guide,
philosopher, and friend. Scotty was good, but
Mugsey was better; for Mugsey was not on the
force, and his hands, politically, were free. I
had made up my mind to meet the charges, what-
ever they were, and give the roundsman a fight.
I would see whether or no an honest officer, who
did his duty, was to be protected. I’d see, also,
whether or no he was to be dragooned into becom-
º
52 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
ing a blackmailer, as an only method of holding
his place. Full of these high, not to say sun-
kissed resolutions, I sat down in the Central Office
to await the coming of my roundsman accuser
and the Inspector before whom I was to be ar-
raigned.
Now occurred an incident that, for the moment,
deflected if it did not arrest the current of my
affairs. The room wherein I waited was one
through which prisoners, after being “booked,”
were taken on their way to the cells. I had
hardly planted myself in a chair, before an officer
in plain clothes came in. There was a frown on
his face, and he was cursing in an undertone.
He paid no heed to me, but walked to a rack, and
took down a heavy police baton. It was a noble
club; he might have felled an ox with it.
As my plain-clothes party, still frowning and
cursing, possessed himself of the club, a second
plain-clothes man came in, leading a prisoner.
I knew the prisoner well; his name was Batty
Dunn, and he had been to the Brothers’ school
with me. While Batty was somewhat handy as
a scrapper, and apt to fight at an outing or kick
up a row at a dance, there was no real harm in
him. At the worst, he was no crook; but worked
for his money, and took care of his mother and
sister. I was about to speak to him, when, with-
MULBERR]^ STREET 53
out word of warning, my plain-clothes personage
—the discontented one with the club—dealt him
a blow on the head that should have cracked the
skull like an egg-shell.
It was the first time I’d seen a prisoner clubbed
in a station house, and for the moment it made
me sick. Only for a moment, however; the
next instant I was standing over Batty, who lay
senseless and bleeding on the floor. It was good
that I jumped when I did; as it fell out I caught
the second blow—a crusher, too!—on my arm.
Not caring for a third, I seized that plain-
clothes person’s wrist in my hand, and twisted it
until it snapped. Then, getting both hands to
work, I grabbed him and threw him against the
wall. The wall, fortunately, was brick; his head
struck it with a fine, encouraging thump. At
that he gave a kind of dog-yelp, a yelp that was
a comfort to my soul, and slipped to the floor as
limp as a bath towel.
All this furious action occupied only the splin-
ter of a moment, and the second plain-clothes
party—he who led poor Batty to the slaughter—
had taken no hand, but stood glued to the floor.
The pace had been too swift for him. Now he
was beginning to get possession of his faculties,
and his first use of them was to make a warlike
rush towards me.
54 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
As he came on, I squared to give him the best
I owned. I’m convinced that, if he’d got within
reach, he would have sworn all his life that a pony
kicked him—so keyed up to a fighting ferocity
was I, as the tense result of the whole brutal
transaction. My plain-clothes gentleman, how-
ever, smelled his peril, and leaped backward
away from the threat of my upraised fist, as nimbly
as though he had been brought up in a rattle-
snake country, and was practiced and familiar
with that form of calisthenics.
“What do you mean ** he cried, with an oath,
“by tryin’ to kill my partner *
“Who’s your partner * says I, although I
could guess well enough. “What partner are
you talking about f*
“What partner Why, Hund, there;—who
else!” Here he pointed to the one whom I had
slammed against the wall, and who was now sit-
ting up, with a confused expression on his face,
rubbing a most symmetrical lump that had already
grown to such dimensions as to overhang the ear.
“Hund,” he repeated, continuing to point an
enraged finger.
“Oh, Hund's his name, is it ** I returned.
“Good name, too, when one remembers that
‘hund’ is Dutch for dog.”
“And you side in against the police!” he almost
MULBERR1 STREET 55
yelled, the full enormity of my offense beginning
to take hold on his rather tardy imagination;
“you—who call yourself a copper!”
“Sure! And you had better not call me any-
thing worse than a copper, either.”
“For two cents I’d trim you!” he gritted, his
hand under his coat where his pistol might have
been.
“Make it ten,” I said; “there's nothing in being
cheap.” Here I tossed a dime towards him,
which, after circling the floor, rolled to his feet.
Observing him taking a grip on his weapon, I
made a step towards him. “Spring that gun,”
I observed, plenty of menace in my tone and man-
ner, “and I’ll make you eat it, butt and barrels.”
It was precisely while affairs were at this dead-
lock that the door of the Inspector's room opened,
and that high officer, accompanied by my tyrant
roundsman—he'd been giving the Inspector the
muster of my demerits, in advance of any hearing—
stepped into our midst.
With the coming of the Inspector, Mr. Hund’s
belligerent partner, bringing his face to a com-
posite of injury and innocence, abandoned me
for him. The bleeding Batty, all this while, was
lying where he fell, senseless and breathing like
apoplexy. Being now free from any immediate
engagement, I went to a washstand that stood in
56 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
one corner of the room, soaked a towel under the
faucet, and began to bathe the prostrate Batty’s
head. It was good for him that he had come
from a thick-skulled race; under my cold water
treatment he drew round directly. In no time he
was in better fettle by far than his assailant, the
sorely battered Hund, who continued to sit by
the wall, wits in a tangle, rubbing his bumps.
On coming to, the redoubtable Batty’s earliest
impulses were of vengeance. He glared over at
the blurred Hund, and remarked fiercely:
“I’ll get you for this, you cur!”
“Come, now!” I said, sopping his head with
the towel—I’d been second several times in our
boxing bouts, and was handy with a towel—
“come now! smother that!”
VI
SENT INTO EXILE
Iº: began my late opponent, hast-
ily,” “this man”—pointing to me—“made
an unprovoked assault upon my partner,
Mr. Hund.” -
The Inspector was a gray, stern, hard-faced
gentleman, who didn’t look as though he required
advice from any quarter. He held up his hand
for silence.
“That will do, Mr. Schnellkoph.” My com-
plaining plain-clothes friend's name, it would seem,
was Schnellkoph. -
Being thus addressed, Mr. Schnellkoph became
mute, while the gray Inspector continued to look
us over. I could tell that, at a glance, he took in
what had passed. In the end he bent his cold,
steady gaze on me.
“You’re doing well!” he said. “Up on charges
before your first uniform is old! And next I find
you attacking my detectives. There, not a word!”
as I started to speak. “A policeman should
never fight the police—remember! There'll al-
ways be enough on the outside doing that.”
57 -
58 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
“Am I then to stand by,” I burst forth, “and
see a brace of thugs murder a defenceless man,
and do nothing because the thugs call themselves
Detective Sergeants **
The gray Inspector shrugged his shoulders, as
who would say: “Was there ever before seen such
an instance of fantastic sentimentality run wild!”
Following the expressive shrug, he became audible.
“If police duty were a steeplechase, I’d say you
were riding for a fall.”
For all the sarcasm, and the hard manner of
criticism, it stood plain that, in his heart, the
Inspector found no mighty fault with me, knowing
me to be new and green as a policeman, and
probably more sinned against than sinning.
“Now,” he continued, with a sudden manner
of decision, “I think I’ll clear the office of all of
you. Mr. Schnellkoph, you and Mr. Hund might
better go about your duty.” Then to me: “As
for you, sir, I think your splendid energies are
wasted where you are. You may prepare yourself
for a transfer. Meanwhile, go back to your
station house; and incidentally help this indi-
vidual”—here he indicated the wounded Batty—
“to the nearest drug store, and get him what court-
plaster he needs. I shall erase the complaint of
‘Disturbance’ that was made against him; he’s
been punished enough. Yes,” he continued,
SENT INTO EXILE 59
speaking to my roundsman, who had plucked
him confidentially by the elbow, “that is all I
shall do. As for your charges against him”—
nodding towards me—“withdraw them. Doubt-
less, he’d have a tale to tell as well as yourself;
it's my experience that there's always two ends
to an alley. At the worst his crimes are not great,
and a trip to the country will be sufficient reproof,
without giving him a record for misconduct.”
The roundsman went his way without bestowing
upon me a look, while I, after saluting that gray
Solomon of the police, the Inspector, made ready
to convoy Batty to the drug store.
“What were you arrested for * I asked, sup-
porting him by the arm, for his knees were shaky;
“why were you run in f°
“For nothin'!” he responded indignantly. “I
was just takin' a punch at a Dago, who’d been
slangin' me, when along comes them Central
Office bulls, an’ collars me. As for that hobo
Hund, I slugged him last summer, the time of
the McBulto Association’s outing, an’ he’s had
it in for me ever since. That's why he nailed me
with the club. But it's all right; I’ll be square
with him—put a bet on that! And, as for the
finish: why, I’d sooner go to the drug shop than
to Essex Market Court to-morrow. Say! that
Inspector bloke ain’t so bad!”
60 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
The transfer promised by the Inspector was
not slow in coming; within the week I was ordered
for duty to the uttermost Northern outskirts of
the town.
“Goin' botanizing, I hear,” remarked the
satirical Scotty, with a grin.
“Yes,” I replied, “I’m going botanizing. Better
botany than blackmail.”
“Well,” returned Scotty, “everybody to his
taste. As for me, I never was stuck on plants.”
It was all trees and lanes and country roads
out there, and as lonesome as a tomb. I’ve heard
enthusiasts talk of the beauties of nature; they
can have mine. I’m different; I wouldn’t give
the asphalt pavements, with their double ranks of
solid bricks, for all the grass and trees that ever
grew. I like noise and rush, the roar of the
Elevated roads, the music floating out of the front
doors of barrooms, the crowds jostling along the
pavements; and there are no solitudes, no bird
songs, no lowing of grass-breathed kine that can
take their places. There were times out there when
I’d have given a ten-dollar bill, merely to hear the
clang of an ambulance; as for the fire-engines,
why just the banging of one of their gongs would
have sounded, in my starved ears, like the Chimes
of Normandy.
To show how I felt: There was a road running
“It was all trees and lanes and country roads out there and as lonesome as a tomb."

SENT INTO EXILE 61
along one edge of my beat, that led to a grave-
yard. I’d get so dreary and blue that, to cheer
me up, I used to haunt it, and lay for funerals.
The way I felt, I’d have made company of a corpse;
besides, now and then the driver of the hearse,
or one of the carriages, would know me, and give
me a hand-toss of recognition. I’d live on that
for a day. Oh, I can tell you those eighteen months
of exile were something fierce! During the entire
year and one-half, I only made five collars—kids
for stealing apples, they were. I got so I knew
enough about cows to run a dairy, while there
were woodpeckers and thrushes and robin-red-
breasts with whom I became so well acquainted
that we used to call each other by our first names.
As I tell you, it was fierce!
At the end of eighteen months, my superiors
had either forgotten that I was honest or ceased
to care, and I was sent back downtown again.
It was Mugsey who brought me the welcome news.
“At last I’ve made it,” said Mugsey, who had
been trying for the whole year and a half to
“square” me with headquarters; “you’ll be
transferred downtown. It'll cost you fifty bones,
though.”
“Now why should it cost fifty dollars ” I
angrily demanded, for I was getting ugly under my
long ill-treatment.
62 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
“You know well enough where it goes,” re-
torted the disgusted Mugsey. “Say! you’re more
trouble to me than all my money! It would have
been easier for me if, instead of steerin' you onto
the force that time, I’d filed an application with
some orphan asylum, and taken a kid to raise.
Why should it cost fifty plunks Because the
secretary of the commish will stall against it, and
keep the transfer from bein’ ordered, unless he
gets it. However, if you’re eager to stay where
you are, don’t pay it.”
That settled the controversy; I paid the fifty
dollars. In another week I was back on the old
Bowery, with all its familiar smells and sights and
sounds.
“You’re back, I see,” cried Scotty, giving me
a handgrip of welcome.
“And glad to get back, too!” I said.
“I”) tell you what you ought to do.”
“What’s that P”
“Write a book of your travels, same as Stanley
an’ them other ducks.”
Mugsey was afraid I’d get into new trouble of
the old sort, and, to fend against it, exerted his
powers as a politician, and had me detailed as a
plain-clothes man. You understand what that
means ? While holding the rank and drawing the
pay of a patrolman, I was ordered for duty as a
SENT IN TO EXILE 63
detective. I was as pleased as Punch with my
new assignment; ever since I came onto the force
it had been my dream to lay off blue, throw away
my club, and become a sleuth.
It should be observed that I possessed no little
natural aptitude for detective work. I was
alert, nervous, sharp to notice, fertile, gifted
of the same instinct for criminals that a pointer
has for quail. Plant a crook within twenty feet
of me, and I’d begin to grow uneasy.
Some suggestion of this native genius as a taker-
in of criminals, found display in my very first case.
It was a case, by the way, that made my fortune
with my skipper; after that there was no danger
of being re-ordered into a uniform, and sent back
to thump a beat. The story was this:
An aged Jew was found dead in the hallway of
his little tumble-down house in Pitt Street, where
he had lived alone. He was seen, alive, the night
before, and found dead by the milkman at six
o'clock Saturday morning. He was fully dressed,
and had flung his praying shawl about his neck.
His death was the result of blows, dealt him about
the head with some dull, heavy instrument. I
was told by the skipper to go to work on the case.
My theory, formed in an instant, ran as follows:
Here was one of your strict, orthodox Hebrews.
Being such, every Saturday he hired some one to
64 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
light his fire. Living alone, he had gone to the
door that Saturday morning to let in the fire-
lighter, and the latter had murdered him, beating
him over the head with the stove-lifter, which all
members of his ash-strewn guild carry ever in
their pockets. The loose screw was the motive—
since the dead man wasn’t robbed, and nothing
in the house had been touched. Still, I clung to
my theory; the more tenaciously because, motive
or no motive, there was that instinct within which
told me I was right.
The old Jew had been found dead at six o'clock;
I was sent out on the case at eight. My first work,
of course, was to take a look at the scene of the
murder. There was nothing to be found or dis-
covered there that could be tortured into a clue.
Coming away, I had gone a block down Pitt
Street, when I met two men. One I knew to be
a tough Bowery rounder; the other, a grizzled,
unkempt individual, was new to me. As the pair
passed me, by some impression I instantly asso-
ciated the grizzled, unkempt one with the taking
off of the old Jew. I noticed, as he passed, that
his long tangle of beard was singed, as might
easily be the condition of a fire-lighter's beard;
also, there was the gray dust of ashes on his coat,
and splotches and smears of soot on his fingers.
It may have been these signs, and doubtless was
SENT INTO EXILE 65
in part, but, beyond them and more than they,
it was instinct. On the impulse, I spun around
on my heel like a top; the next moment I had my
hand on the unkempt, grizzled one’s shoulder.
I won’t expand on the affair, for there was nothing
occult or thrilling about it. Suffice it that I’d
nipped my man. He was a fire-lighter, as I had
surmised. He turned out to be a half-crazy
creature; and, when asked why he murdered the
old Jew, said that it was because the murdered
one owed him a nickel and wouldn’t pay. Asked
why he didn’t rob the house, he threw up his hands
in Christian horror at the idea. He would do
nothing so sinful!
It's an ill wind that blows nobody good, and,
as I’ve explained, it was the murder of the old Jew,
and my picking up the murderer almost within
the hour, that established me in the admiring
graces of the captain, beyond any power of either
sergeant or roundsman to disturb.
Three months had gone by, with me as a plain-
clothes man, when one day the indefatigable
Mugsey drew me into a corner.
“File an application, and take your examination
as a detective sergeant.”
“A detective sergeant f° I repeated.
“That's what I said,” returned Mugsey short-
ly. “We’ll about skip the roundsman rung.”
66 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
Mugsey then told me, in deepest secrecy, that the
commissioner had been privily ordered by Tammany
Hall to make fifty additional detective sergeants.”
“This time, however,” said Mugsey, “we’ll
have to cough up three thousand dollars. That’s
the price at which the places have been fixed.”
At that I threw out my hands. Where was
I to find three thousand dollars As well make
it thirty thousand!
“That's all right,” returned Mugsey, tran-
quilly. “You go on an’ take the examination;
you’ll get the three thousand when you need it.”
“Who from ? Barney f"
Long prior, I had paid Barney those three
hundred dollars he endowed me with, to procure
my place as a patrolman; and I could think of
no one but Barney now. At the name of Barney,
Mugsey scoffed.
“Not on your life!” he said. “Barney is neither
so flush nor so friendly as all that. There’s a limit
goes with Barney, and it's 'way below three thous-
and dollars.”
“Who then P”
“Do you know Lazarus, who keeps the hock
shop in Chatham Square : That's the good
Samaritan; old Lazarus 'll stake you to the three
thousand the moment we go to him.”
“Lazarus!” I cried. “Lazarus is a ‘fence’.”
VII
SILENCE IS NOT ONLY GOLDEN, BUT
GOOD SENSE
HERE was I when I quit talking? Ah,
yes; I stopped just as I was getting
ready to let Lazarus, the Chatham
Square “fence,” give me three thousand dollars,
needed to make me a detective sergeant.
Let me tell you something. Since I talked
last, I’ve been thinking. As the result of that
cogitation, I’ve settled it with myself that this is
the last consignment of confessions I’ll hand out.
Of course a copper has an endless chain of adven-
tures, and I could go on and on without a limit,
like bridge whist at the Union Club. But what’s
the use *
What give me cold feet? I’ll tell you. What
I’ve been saying don’t help my standing with my
old partners on the Force. Sure; they know
who's doing this. There aren’t so many retired
Captains of Detectives, d'ye see, and they “made
me” all right. I met an Inspector the other day;
he gave me a dry, knowing grin:
“It’s all right,” says he, “and I’m not kicking.
But, on the levell—and you can take it from me,
67
68 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
who has always stood your friend—it don’t look
well for you, after you’ve got yours, to sit back
and go to talking.”
That was all he said; but the more I think of
it, the more it strikes me it was enough. I’ve
made up my mind, so far as these “Confessions”
go, to pack in and quit. After this, if you get
any more, you’ll have to connect with some other
retired Hawkshaw.
To go back to my conference with Mugsey
about Lazarus: Our Chatham Square friend
was, as I said, a “fence.” I put this to Mugsey:
“There's nothin’ to it!” says he. “It’s your
only chance. I don’t know of another, between
the Battery an' the Bronx, who'll stake you to
that three thousand. You can take it or leave it.”
To make a long story short, I took it. Lazarus
gave Mugsey the dough without a scrap to show
for it—oh, he was game enough, and didn’t tie
any strings to the play. Then I went on, passed
my examination, paid in the Lazarus three thous-
and, and was appointed a detective sergeant.
Whom did I pay the three thousand to ? Never
mind that; Mugsey made the spiel. One thing
I’ll tell you; it never got out of Mulberry Street.
No, I don’t blame myself. If I accuse any-
body, it's the public. You can argue it out for
yourself: When the public plays its game so
SILENCE IS GOLDEN 69
badly, that a copper can’t get his promotion with-
out giving up the price, why then you can figure
that the price will be paid. I was “stuck up *
as though by a footpad. It was pay three thous-
and dollars, or go without your promotion. The
public should have protected me from that; it
didn’t, and—like the man with the footpad’s pis-
tol to his ear—I did the best I could. I paid;
and got the promotion to which I was entitled
without paying, but would never have received in
any other way.
How is the public to stop it? I don’t know;
that’s for the public to settle. All I say is that
no copper would pay for promotion if he didn't
have to. And when he does pay—a roundsman
five hundred dollars, a detective sergeant three
thousand dollars, a captain fifteen thousand dol-
lars—it stands to reason he’s going to get it back.
Do you imagine a captain gives up several years'
salary in advance, merely to hear himself called
“Captain " ?
You asked a moment ago what the public could
do. Well, I’ll back-track my story far enough
to say one word further on that point. The public
should take the police out of politics. It should
abolish these mayor-appointed commissioners, and
give the Force a permanent head—somebody
whose place can’t be taken from him by the poli-
70 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
ticians. That’s the only way. You'll have to
make, not a chief, but a dictator of police, answer-
able to nobody, amenable only to the law. So
long as a mayor appoints the head of the Force,
and the machine—it doesn’t matter what machine
—appoints the mayor, the machine will control
the Force.
Certainly, the present system disorganizes and
demoralizes the police. And small wonder! It
would demoralize a church. That’s straight!
You let the mayor appoint the rector of Trinity
church, and I’ll guarantee it will put that sanc-
tuary on the blink.
As I’ve told you, I got the three thousand dol-
lars required to advance me to the grade of detec-
tive sergeant, from Lazarus. Here’s how it
worked out. I was given my appointment, and
detailed for duty at the Central Office. For a
time all moved smoothly. Of course I was imme-
diately beset by the usual bevy of “dips,” “guns,”
and “green goods” men, who one and all offered
to “dress my front” for me; that is, give me
pins and watches and chains, as a means of curry-
ing favor, and get me to let them “work” in peace.
It was nothing doing; I turned them down, and
there wasn’t a crook in the town who didn’t fear
me, and give me credit for being a square cop.
It stood that way until one winter night—about
SILENCE IS GOLDEN 71
eleven o’clock, it was—when I made a collar on
Grand Street. I’ll skip details, and only say that
I landed two cracksmen with a big lay-out of furs.
I got them dead to rights, and could have rail-
roaded them. At that point, who should show
up but Lazarus. It was a case of his men and his
furs.
What was I to do? I'll give Lazarus credit;
he never said a word about the three thousand
dollars. He simply told me how he was “in,”
and put it on the ground of friendship. Now
when it comes to that, I’m no better nor stronger
than other men. I never forget an injury or a
favor, and have always had the name of sticking
by my enemies and my friends. The long and
the short of it was, I bottled up the evidence
against the fur thieves, queered the case in their
interest, and turned them out on the street. Laza-
rus got the furs, and I got the name of standing
pat for a pal.
It's no use talking; the affair worried me to
the heart. I didn’t get it off my mind for a year.
The fact is I never got it off my mind, but in time
I grew hard to it.
That transaction in favor of Lazarus changed
my pace. Up to that time I’d run true, and
played the game as honest as a clock. But it
wasn’t worth while after that. I’d been squared;
72 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
it was known that I could be reached; for wise
men looking on—men like Scotty, for instance—
knew well what had happened. The same thing
had happened to them too often, to talk of mis-
understanding the symptoms. And so, natu-
rally, I turned out with the rest, and when any-
thing came my way I grabbed it. From that
Lazarus time I was out for the dust, and made
every dollar I could. Why not It was a slice off
a cut loaf; I was “wrong” and I might as well go
the route. I’d sooner drown in ten thousand
fathom of water than ten; it's more respectable.
That's the way it struck me, at any rate, and I
acted on it. *
Graft You want me to give you a sort of
graft-map, do you ? There wouldn’t be room on
Manhattan Island to draw one. There’s no
limit to the graft; it's everywhere. A building
falls down—a case of rotten mortar; that’s graft.
A thousand chimneys send up a cloud of soft coal
smoke; that’s graft. You fall over a pile of
boxes, or bark your shins on a bunch of building
material, in the street; that's graft. You stroll
down to the wharf for a look at the river, and
can’t see it because of a mountain of freight that's
holding down the bulkhead at the street's end;
that's graft. You get in a building, somebody
yells “fire!” and there isn’t any fire-escape, or if
SILENCE IS COLDEN 73
there is one, it’s loaded to the guards with tubs,
coal-scuttles, and trundle-beds; that’s graft. And
so the good work goes on. Why man! the very
ordinances are passed by the City Council, not to
protect the city, but to promote graft. Every
one of those ordinances gives some department a
fresh grip on the public. The ordinance gets in
somebody's way; that somebody has to pay.
Sometimes it's pay to one department, sometimes
to another; but at least he pays. Every depart-
ment—Street, Dock, Water, Building, Park, Health,
Lighting, each has its line of graft. The police
aren't alone; they’re not the only grafters.
What does the police graft amount to ? Over
all, directly and indirectly, it doesn’t fall much
below four millions a year. Graft splits into two
kinds: organized and unorganized graft. The
latter, in its extent, depends on the individual
copper.
There are coppers of every color from white to
deepest black. Some coppers will “settle” with
gamblers and poolroom keepers, but there they
stop. Some are so hard they’ll deal in with porch
climbers, and strong-arm people—stand for any-
body or anything to get the money.
There are policemen and lawyers who pal in.
Some lawyers will give a copper his “bit” if he’ll
steer for them, and send them suits against rail-
74 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
roads, and the like, for killing people or breaking
their legs and arms. Then there are lawyers—
mostly those that infest police magistrates courts,
and who have become as common as blackberries
on the East Side—who make an underground part-
nership with certain of the police. Here's the
way they graft. The lawyer has clients who are
thieves or worse. Naturally, he keeps a friendly
eye on their financial condition. One of them
gets five hundred dollars to the good. The lawyer
knows; and he gives the “office” to his partner,
the copper, to collar the client. The pinch comes
off; the copper runs in the rich thief, and then he
and the lawyer shake him down between them for
the bundle. When they’ve taken all his roll, they
turn him loose to get some more. Whereupon
they shake him down again. Of course the poor
crook never suspects his lawyer, who tells him
the stuff goes—every dollar of it—to square the
copper, and that he’ll get a stretch or two in Sing
Sing if he doesn’t cough. This kind of thing
comes off by the dozen every day.
There's Court graft, too, where the clerk and
the Court officers stand in. Take a probation
officer, so-called. A crook pleads guilty, or is
convicted; the judge holds the case over, and
sends out his probation officer to discover and
report on the culprit's past. You can see how
SILENCE IS GOLDEN 75
that probation officer can save or give the crook
a few extra years. The crook has friends; they
want to make the thing as easy as they may. With
such a situation, do you see anything in it for the
probation officer
Speaking of lawyers, it may interest you to know
that twenty of every hundred, practicing at the
New York City bar, are practicing on fraudulent
admission papers. Men who can’t speak, let
alone read or write English, and are as ignorant
as dogs, besides, are “admitted” as lawyers.
How were they thus licensed to practice They
hired somebody to assume their names, and take
the examination for them. There are men who
make a business of taking law examinations, first
under one name, then under another. The cer-
tificate of admission to the bar, when they receive
it, is sold to the wily ignoramus, who pays as high
as five thousand dollars. After that he hunts for
prey in the Magistrates Courts, and finds the price
he paid for the fraudulent certificate a good
investment. You say that you think the smart fel-
low, who takes the examinations, must stand in
with somebody high up For that matter, he
does.
What might, be called the organized graft
covers poolrooms, gambling houses, brothels,
saloons, and the like. The saloons pay from
76 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
five to twenty-five dollars a month; the pool-
rooms, gambling houses, brothels from two hun-
dred and fifty to as high, in gilt-edged cases,
as two thousand dollars a month. Speaking of
organized graft, I’ve seen it pulled off in style.
There has been a time when a syndicate ran the
organized graft, of course, with the aid of the
police. The syndicate, d'ye see, had to have the
police; because if a gambler, for example, rebelled
and refused to give up, the only way to compel
him to be good was to pull him. That called
for the police.
When the graft syndicate operated, it simply
took charge of things; it went into blackmail on
a system. It had offices on Sixth Avenue near
Twenty-ninth Street, and on Fourteenth Street
near Sixth Avenue. If you had walked into
either of them on monthly collection days, you
would have thought it was the sub-treasury.
There were brass cages, fire-proof safes, mahogany
desks, ledgers, clerks, cashiers. The collectors
would appear, and throw down the money in
sheaves and bundles. You couldn’t find your
way about, because of the knee-deep accumula-
tion of riches.
Every collector—they were on the Force, cap-
tains, wardmen, and that sort of handy-man,
mostly—had his list. He made his rounds; and
SILENCE IS GOLDEN 77
either showed up with the regulation sum, or
brought in an explanation as to why this one or
that one wouldn't come down. In case any one
rebelled, or failed for any reason to pony up, the
captain of that precinct was ordered to send a
squad and blot him out. They always liked to
do this last; it gave them a name for efficiency,
and showed the public that the police “were doing
their duty.”
This graft syndicate was arranged on the plan
that used to obtain among old-time whalers.
Every member had his “lay,” some took smaller
and some took larger shares. It included on its rolls
a mixture of policemen and politicians. In many
cases, the syndicate copped off half the profits of
a poolroom or a gambling house. Often, when
the profits were fat, and the place a strong one,
they took it away from the lawful proprietor, and
ran it themselves.
That was a great ring; those were days of vel-
vet. That syndicate made a haymow full of
money, be sure of that. It was an hour of millions!
I recall how a police captain was so inconsiderate
as to drop dead at his desk; and, when the desk
was opened, there were over ninety thousand dol-
lars in dough and diamonds in it. No; those *
riches hadn’t gone as far as they were going; the
dead captain's desk was only a way-station. Every
78 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
splinter was on its journey to the syndicate’s head-
quarters; and, after the funeral was over and
the papers quit having hysterics, it got there.
The syndicate millions, following collection,
were banked in one man's name. Being banked,
they were split into proper shares by checks. Sure,
the syndicate would have been as easy to investi-
gate as a life insurance company. It could have
been turned inside out. But everybody who
ought to investigate it was in on the play; the
syndicate didn't take any chances. In those
years wherein it flourished, it raked in not a shill-
ing under fifty millions, and everybody, down to
the wardmen among"policemen and district cap-
tains, among politicians, got what belonged to him.
Yes; there are poolrooms and gambling rooms
now—hundreds of them. They always run; they
have never stopped and never will. The phrases
“lid on” and “lid off” are mere catch-words,
invented to tickle newspaper reporters and amuse
the public. There was never a moment in my
time but what any one who wanted a game could
get it.
Besides this grand graft, that goes out for thous-
ands and runs the thousands into millions, there
is a desultory, flea-bite graft that has to be ac-
counted for. Much of this is waged by the under-
lings and agents of the so-called anti-vice socie-
SILENCE IS GOLDEN 79
ties. You can imagine some honest old preacher
at the head of a society who thinks he's purifying
the city. It never occurs to him that he's being
used as a “stall” for a lot of finished grafters,
every one of 'em as cunning as a pet fox! But .
so it has happened many a time and oft. Those
agents and underlings were getting the coin, right
and left, from poolroom keeper and gambler, while
the honest old dominie at the top was collecting
the incense, and revelling in the praise, bestowed
by a blinded public.
To show you how fine they work it: There’s a
law against selling liquor or beer to minors. Right
now, as I tell this, there are scores of saloons that
pay five dollars a month to the agents of one of
these anti-vice societies, for the privilege of serv-
ing kids, whose fathers have sent them to the side
door with the “growler.” Not a doubt of it! I
could take you to dozens. The ginmills have to
stand it. The assessment which they pay the
police only covers the questions of selling on Sun-
day, and keeping open after hours. If they sell
to children, that’s another matter, and goes as the
legitimate graft of the anti-vice people.
You are amazed, you say ? You have heard,
I presume, of such things as whited sepulchers,
and stealing the livery of heaven to serve the devil
in : If you haven't, I have, and it has frequently
8o CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
saved me from being astonished to death. Why
don’t I inform on these anti-vice grafters ? I’m
too modest a pot to call any kettle black. Besides,
I’ve but one ambition now; an ambition to live
down my past, and lead a quiet life.
It may please you to hear that, in this art of
graft, the police don't always have it all their own
way. No, indeed; those who live by the sword
are sometimes grievously wounded, even if they
don’t quite perish by the sword. About every
other Albany winter, a bill is introduced to do this
or that savage thing to the Force. I’ve seen a
measure offered to wipe the police from the map.
It became a question, then, of protecting your job
—a job which, if you were a captain, had cost you
fifteen thousand in cold reluctant coin of the
realm.
The “word” was sent round. True, every
man jack of us, who wore a police badge, knew
the bill was a “strike,” and devised to bleed us.
That made no difference; we had to come down.
The patrolmen put in fifteen dollars each, the
roundsmen twenty-five, the sergeants fifty, and so
on up the line. There are eight thousand patrol-
men, to say nothing of the higher grades; so a
fortune of full one hundred and twenty-five thous-
and dollars would go to the statesmen in Albany,
as their price for letting us alone. Stand it We
SILENCE IS GOLDEN $1
had to stand it. We used to laugh about it, too.
This handing his own medicine to the doctor, has
its humorous side.
However, I’m going to close the books. A bad
black picture, you say. Perhaps! Still you
shouldn’t lose sight of the fact that, while it might
be white, it could be a great deal worse than it
is. And when the last word is said, it's the pub-
lic's fault. It permits the machine to pick out its
mayor, and through him its police. It is the
public who does this; and, when police things go
wrong, the public shouldn’t whine. Those who
keep monkeys must pay for the glasses they
break; that, too, whether the monkeys are kept in
the City Hall or at Police Headquarters in Mul-
berry Street,
THE WASHINGTON SQUARE
MYSTERY
I
THE DE SILLE MURDER.
T was a nipping morning in February, tem-
I perature between zero and freezing, and
every city clock of good repute was announc-
ing eight. As Inspector Val stepped into his room
in Mulberry Street, Mr. Bowles, the desk man,
was hanging up the telephone receiver.
“Inspector,” said Mr. Bowles, a look of pro-
fessional hurry in his face, “word arrives that Mr.
Jacob De Sille was mysteriously murdered last
night, at his home.”
“At his home * repeated Inspector Val. “The
De Sille house is in Washington Square.” Then
addressing a bull-faced individual, with bulky
shoulders and sharp gray eyes, who was idling
near a window: “You may come, Sorg.”
When Inspector Val and Detective Sergeant
Sorg reached the street, a thin flurry of snow had
begun to paint the pavement white. Inspector
Val drew the fur collar of his overcoat more closely
about his throat, and coughed in a deprecatory
way. Mr. Sorg, who looked in his cloth cap and
rough jacket not unlike a prosperous longshore-
man, cared nothing for snow.
85
86 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
Inspector Val signalled a brougham which
waited across the street. “Stop at the Arch in
Washington Square,” were the directions, as he
followed Mr. Sorg into the brougham.
There was a profound contrast between Inspec-
tor Val and Mr. Sorg. The former owned a
sleepy intolerant eye, that may have been an
affectation or may have been a mask. This gave
him a slumbrous expression, as of weariness worn
out, that, coupled with his sensitive face, made
for the highbred and aristocratic, which impression
the quiet extravagance of his dress assisted. Mr.
Sorg was slop-shop and rough, and the separation
between him and his companion was as the sepa-
ration between Fifth Avenue and Cherry Hill.
Yet both were the bane of criminals, and had
gained celebration in their ancient and recondite
mystery of crime-searching.
As the brougham drew up beneath the Arch,
Inspector Val and Mr. Sorg got out. A walk of
fewer than one hundred yards brought them to a
sedate mansion of red brick. The dark shades of
the windows were closely drawn, and the place had
an atmosphere of secrecy.
Inspector Val rang the old-fashioned bell; the
door was opened by an elderly woman with a
strong, Jewish face. She motioned quietly towards
a small reception room off the hall, and seemed to
THE DE SILLE MURDER 87
understand the official character of her visitors
without a word of introduction. -
“It was I who telephoned, gentlemen,” she
explained as, having carefully closed the street
door, she followed them into the reception room.
“I suppose,” she continued, “you prefer to hear
what I know, before beginning an investigation.”
Inspector Val made a gesture of assent... “Pro-
ceed, madam,” said he. “Begin by telling us
who you are.”
“I am the housekeeper; I have had charge of
Mr. De Sille's house for almost fourteen years.”
“Go on, please!”
“This morning I got up at my usual hour—six.
It may have been half after seven before I came
down stairs, as there were duties which detained
me on the second floor. I came down by the
front stairs, and, as I passed the doorway which
opens into the library, I was surprised to find the
gas burning full head. The room being in the
rear would have been partially dark without a
light, but at the hour mentioned, I supposed that
Mr. De Sille, according to his custom, was fast
asleep. I stepped into the room, and there in his
arm-chair sat Mr. De Sille—dead. I shall not
describe the appearance of the body or the room,
since you are to shortly see both for yourselves.
When I had recovered from the first shock, I
88 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
approached and made sure that nothing of life
remained. Then I left the room and locked the
door, leaving all things undisturbed.”
“Who were in the house last night?”
“There were five, not counting Mr. De Sille.
The family proper was made up of Mr. De Sille
and his nephew, John Steendam—a young man
of twenty-two. There were three colored servants,
a boy, a girl, and their mother, who is the cook.
Then you are to count myself.”
“Where is young Steendam *
“He is asleep in his room. When I discovered
the death of Mr. De Sille, I ran to call him. I did
not call him, however. The three colored ser-
vants, who sleep in the rear of the house, and come
down by the back stairs, were already in the
kitchen, where they are now. I have said nothing
to them of the tragedy, and, as we sit here, saving
the guilty one, it is known only to us three.” The
housekeeper gave Inspector Val the key of the
library. “I would rather not go in,” she said.
“Very good. Remain in the hall, please, and
let no one leave the house.”
In a large easy chair, facing the door, was the
dead Jacob De Sille. The body was not posed
bolt upright, but had slipped down into the chair,
the head forward, with chin resting on the shirt
bosom. The hands were empty and hanging
THE DE SILLE MURDER 89
almost to the floor. A small pistol, Colt's make,
calibre 32, was lying on the carpet as though it
had fallen from the left hand.
Inspector Val paused on the threshold for a
survey of the room. The furniture was of massive
mahogany. There was nothing beyond the com-
mon, save a large old-fashioned safe, the heavy
door of which stood on the swing. In the fireplace,
where one or two coals still glowed, were evidences
of papers having been burned.
Inspector Val made an examination of the dead
man. There was a wide bruise over the left temple
that reached back into the hair. On the right
cheek was a jagged cut from which had flowed
considerable blood. Mr. De Sille had had on
evening dress, and the wide white shirt bosom
was soaked with red from this cut. There was
also a pool on the floor. The blood stains had
become dark and dry and hard.
“What do you think, Sorg f" asked Inspector
Val. “Should such wounds mean death **
Mr. Sorg shook his head cautiously. “He’s
dead all right,” he observed tentatively. “And
as for the marks, while that gash on the cheek
oughtn't to count, there are the others. You can
give a party quite a tap with a sandbag, enough
to kill him, and yet not leave much of a trace.
That's what a sandbag's for.”
90 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
While Mr. Sorg was speaking, Inspector Val
had continued his examination of the room. The
carpet, a thick wilton, came in for a hawk-like
scrutiny. At the feet of the dead man, on the left
of the chair, lay the pistol. An unexploded
cartridge reposed in each of the six chambers. In
a far corner was found a gold bead, the size of a
pea. The bead was not perforated, but had two
small links, each set opposite the other, and
plainly meant to connect it with other beads.
Inspector Val gave it a sharp examination, and
then put it in his pocket.
The safe was searched. In all respects it showed
as empty as a church. A small steel box, inside
the safe, had its key in the lock. This little box
was as vacant as the main compartment. What-
ever were the contents of the safe, whether
jewels, money, or papers, had been confiscated.
The pile of ashes on the hearth, showed the
disposition of certain of the latter. Inspector Val
painfully sifted the ashes, hoping to find some
unburned scrap. There was none. -
One feature among the indications riveted the
particular interest of Inspector Val. There were
four round scars, an inch and a half in diameter,
in the thick carpet, where the plush had been
forcibly flattened. Of these, one was very evident,
as though the plush had been ground, rather than
THE DE SILLE MURDER 9I
pressed down. It looked as if the instrument
that made it had been given a boring, twisting
motion. He was much taken by these marks or
scars, and bent over them, magnifying glass in
hand.
Mr. Sorg suggested the legs of a chair, pressed
down by a heavy man, as explaining these.
“Where is the chair f* asked Inspector Val.
“Besides, these marks are not at regular distances
from each other, as would be the case, had they
been made by a chair.”
Mr. Sorg said nothing. He was more inclined
to silence, since a rapid glance showed no chair
in the room that could have furnished them.
In one of these carpet-scars, was a smirch of
dried blood. Inspector Val called Mr. Sorg's
attention to the blood. The latter tossed his
hands as though he had no theory to advance.
Inspector Val smiled. “What you lack, Sorg,”
said he, “is imagination.”
Inspector Val made the rounds of the windows
and doors. Not one had been forced; there was
never a sign of the housebreaker. The front
doors were double, and locked themselves when
closed. The looted safe suggested a burglary,
and that Mr. De Sille had been murdered by the
housebreakers. Nor did the want of evidence of
violence about the windows forbid this inference,
92 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
since the robber or robbers might have entered
through the agency of duplicate keys. For all
that, there were indications, open and patent,
that negatived the theory. The shirt front of the
dead man displayed two black pearls of price.
On the little finger of his left hand gleamed a
solitaire diamond—blue and of a value even with
that of the pearls. In its proper fob was a repeater.
A common cracksman would have taken these.
Inspector Val discovered across the left wrist
of the dead man a black welt. The wrist had been
all but broken by a blow from some heavy blud-
geon-like weapon. -
When his examination was complete, Inspector
Val locked the library door and put the key in his
pocket. Then he sought the housekeeper. Out-
wardly steady, she was clearly on a tremendous
strain, and only controlled her nerves and avoided
breaking down by a supreme effort.
“Pardon me, madam,” observed Inspector Val;
“you haven’t given us your name.”
“Jane Agnew.” -
To the questions of Inspector Val, the house-
keeper unfolded certain particulars that had gone
untouched in her opening statements. She was a
widow; her husband had been dead fifteen years.
She had no family—neither chick nor child.
“What was in the safe f" asked Inspector Val,
THE DE SILLE MURDER 93
when the housekeeper had covered certain cardinal
points in her own story.
“That I don't know. Mr. De Sille was utterly
secretive. In the years I’ve kept his house, not
one word concerning himself or his affairs has he
told me. The safe might have held a million
in gems or money or bonds. On the other hand,
it might have contained nothing.”
“Did you ever see it open before ?”
“No.”
“It is not required,” observed Inspector Val,
“that I press any question concerning Mr. De
Sille personally; I’m fairly posted as to his history.
But about the nephew.”
The tears began to slowly gather in the house-
keeper's eyes. “I love the boy,” she said simply,
as though apologizing for the tears. Then collect-
ing herself, she proceeded: “I have told you that
his name is John Steendam. Master John is an
orphan—father, mother both dead; his mother
was the only sister of Mr. De Sille. He has lived
with his uncle since he was twelve years old
—ten years.”
“Were they on good terms ? I ask because
your failure to awaken him, and tell him of his
uncle’s death, has a queer look.”
“When you go to Master John,” returned the
housekeeper, sorrowfully, “you will appreciate
95.
94 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
my reasons for such a course. Still it may all be
explained in a manner compatible with his inno-
cence.” Here she began to sob softly. “I would
not for the world,” she continued, wringing her
hands, “say or do aught that pointed to Master
John as his uncle's murderer!”
“Calm yourself, madam,” said Inspector Val.
“You will best help young Steendam by telling
all you know. Believe me, we should discover it
in any case. Let me ask again: Were Mr. De
Sille and his nephew on good terms ?”
“Until he came from college a year ago, Master
John was the apple of his uncle's eye.”
“And since he came from college f"
“They have had quarrels. And yet I would
forfeit my life that to the last, Mr. De Sille loved
Master John better than all else on earth.”
“Tell me of the quarrels.”
“Since Master John came from college, he has
lived a rather fast life—cards and wine I think.
Mr. De Sille wanted him to go into business. He
had the controlling interest in a bank, and wanted
Master John to go to work in the bank. The
latter refused, and it was over that, added to Mas-
ter John's drinking and gambling, the two quar-
relled.”
“When was their last difference P’’
“Last evening about nine o'clock. They had
THE DE SILLE MURDER 95
high words in the library; and, as I passed the
door, I overheard Mr. De Sille say: ‘I shall make
a new will! Yes, sir; I shall marry and disinherit
you.’ A moment afterward the front door closed
with a slam, and looking from the front window,
I saw, by the light of the street lamp, Master John
walking rapidly away. An hour later, ten o’clock,
I went to bed and to sleep.”
“And did you hear nothing more ? Did no
noise arouse you ?”
“Yes; the street door. I heard it again about
eleven o’clock. I was in a first light sleep, and it
roused me. I remember the hour, for I turned up
the night lamp that stands by the bed, and looked
at my watch. I paid no particular heed, however,
for I thought it was Master John who had come
back, perhaps in a calmer mood, to continue the
discussion with his uncle. I went at once to
sleep, and never opened my eyes again until six
in the morning.”
“Then the sounds of the struggle, which must
have taken place in the library, never reached you ?
You heard the street door, but you couldn’t hear
murder taking place in the library.”
Inspector Val got this off in a manner of sus-
picion. The housekeeper did not appear dis-
turbed, but maintained her attitude of quiet sorrow.
“One can hear the street door,” she said, “from
96 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
my room very readily. The library, however, is
to the rear, and, call as loudly as you may, if you
are in the library, with the door closed, no one
in my room would hear you.”
“These acoustic peculiarities of the premises
shall presently be tested, madam.” The house-
keeper bowed. “Meanwhile, the last sound that
attracted your waking notice, was the opening and
closing of the front door at eleven o’clock, when
you thought it marked the return of young Steen-
dam. Show us young Steendam’s room; I think
our next word should be with him.”
The housekeeper rose weakly, and led the way
to the second floor. She pointed to the third door
down the hall.
“That is Master John's,” she said. “It isn’t
locked; it opened to my hand when I ran upstairs
to call him.”
“And where is your room, madam *
The housekeeper pointed to that small front
room, so common in the architecture of the New
York dwelling, which goes by the title of hall room.
“It is there,” she said.
“Won't you please remain in your own room
then, until further word from me?” Inspector
Val threw open the door, and without a demur the
housekeeper went in, and took a seat near the
single window which overlooked the front steps.
THE DE SILLE MURDER 97
The key was in the lock. “Pardon me,” he con-
tinued, “if I turn the key on you for a moment.”
The housekeeper offered no response, but con-
tinued to gaze steadily from the window into Wash-
ington Square. Without further parley Inspector
Val backed from the room, and closed and locked
the door behind him.
The door of young Steendam’s room opened
readily, as the housekeeper had promised it
would. The shades of the two windows were
down, but enough of daylight filtered through to
make the one gas jet, that was burning, show dim
and sick.
On the bed, asleep and breathing stertorously,
lay a broad-shouldered young man. He had on
shirt, trousers, and shoes; his coat, vest, and collar
were thrown about the floor. The bed stood
where the shadows were deepest, but it could be
seen, even in the dull light, that the face on the
tumbled pillow was swollen and sodden of drink.
The young man’s shirt front was bedabbled with
blood. Upon examination, the dresscoat and
vest were found to be similarly stained. A wash-
stand in one corner bore evidence of drunken
efforts to wash the bloodstains from a handker-
chief, and the square of cambric—wet, and still
of a dull red—was lying in the bottom of the
basin.
98 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
The gray eyes of Mr. Sorg began to gleam.
“We’ve got our man!” said he in a whisper.
“Wake him up! And look out for yourself;
he’s only half sober, and as strong as a horse.”
Mr. Sorg shook the sleeper rudely by the
shoulder. “Turn out!” said he.
The one on the bed opened his filmy eyes and
§ gazed in a blurred, non-understanding way at Mr.
Sorg. The latter met the look with a second terse
command.
“Come! Turn out!”
Young Steendam’s response was quick and
furious. A look of mingled rage and wonder came
into his eyes and cleared them instantly. He
sprang from the bed.
“Scoundrels!” he cried. “What are you doing
here P’’
Without waiting for an answer, young Steendam
threw himself upon Mr. Sorg. In the coolest way
in the world, that seasoned officer parried the
attack, and pinned young Steendam hard and
fast. The young gentleman had been the college
pride as an athlete, and had pulled an oar in the
college boat. In the grim hands of Mr. Sorg he
was helpless.
Inspector Val, who had stood leaning against
the door-jamb during the brief struggle, as one
wholly unconcerned, came up and, with profes-
THE DE SILLE MURDER 99
sional dexterity, snapped a pair of irons on young
Steendam. It was done in the fraction of a
second. Mr. Sorg released him, and young
Steendam, realizing fate in the guise of the steel
stringers on his wrists, ceased to struggle, and
seated himself on the side of the bed. He glared
inquiringly at Inspector Val, who said nothing.
After a moment of silence, young Steendam
spoke,
“What is this f" he asked, shifting his glance
from Inspector Val to Mr. Sorg.
Mr. Sorg had a genius for silence; besides he
was in no wise skillful of debate or controversy.
He turned towards Inspector Val, as though pass-
ing the query over to him.
“I am Inspector Val, of the Central Office,”
said that gentleman. Young Steendam gasped
as though the name were not new. “And this
is Detective Sergeant Sorg, a member of my
force.”
“What is the trouble fº asked young Steendam,
in a mystified manner. “Why should vou be
here P’’
“I put that question to vou. Why should we
be here P’’
Inspector Val watched the expression of his
prisoner's face with the intentness of a lynx. The
only emotion therein set forth was round-eyed
Ioo CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
amazement. If it were acting it was superlative
art.
“There's some mistake, gentlemen,” young
Steendam said at last. “I’ve done nothing
criminal. I had a gay night, and drank perhaps
a pint or two too much. But I had my head. I
did nothing—had no trouble; I should have
remembered it.”
“Trouble!” retorted Inspector Val, pointing to
the shirt bosom. “What do you say to that f°
“My nose bled coming up the stair. It does
that when I’ve been drinking over much.”
“That is your explanation ?”
“On my honorſ gentlemen, that is the fact.”
“It is my duty,” observed Inspector Val, while
surprise continued to grow in the face of young
Steendam, whose astonishment—real or feigned
—seemed to increase as he came more and more
from out the double fog of sleep and wine—“it is
my duty to warn you that you are not bound to
answer questions. Also, that your replies may
hereafter be used against you. Keep the subject
of your own safety, then, uppermost in your mind.”
“I’ll answer any question!” cried young Steen-
dam. “I’ve nothing to hide. I was drunk last
night; but I did no wrong. I met several college
friends and over-wined myself. I drank perhaps
the more, because I intended and still intend it to
THE DE SILLE MURDER IOI
be the last. From to-day, I shall not touch a
drop.”
“An excellent resolution!” remarked Inspector
Val, drily. Then: “What time did you come
home last night º'
“It was this morning; three o’clock. I drove
from Delmonico’s in a cab.”
“Alone P”
“Yes! I left my friends about two-thirty.”
“The blood could have dried in that time,”
said Mr. Sorg, argumentatively, watching the face
of Inspector Val.
“The blood!” cried young Steendam. “I’ve
explained that it came from my nose.”
“I mean the other blood,” observed Mr. Sorg,
stolidly.
Inspector Val interrupted further question on
the part of young Steendam.
“When did you last see your uncle " he de-
manded.
“About nine last night.”
“What did you talk about Was your con-
versation pleasant f°
“No,” returned young Steendam, shame-faced
and confused. “He upbraided me with my
habits, and we had harsh words. After I left I
felt the justice of his complaints; it was that
which taught me to resolve on a new leaf. I
Ioz CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
intend to tell him that I’m through with wine and
cards, and ready for work. It was no more than
a case of wild oats.”
“Did you ever see that before ?” and Inspector
Val held out the pistol found on the library floor.
“It is my uncle's. He kept it in his writing
table.”
“And that f° Here Inspector Val presented
the golden bead.
“No; I never before set eyes on it,” said young
Steendam. Then rousing resentfully: “But why
should you question me? By what right do you
do this thing *
“You shall have your answer before we leave
the house. Now you must dress for the street.
I am going to take the irons off, and trust you’ll
have the good sense to behave.”
Young Steendam gave his word, and Inspector
Val released his wrists.
“You remain here,” remarked Inspector Val
to Mr. Sorg, “while he's dressing. I’ll have a look
at the servants.”
One glance at the colored folk in the kitchen was
enough to convince Inspector Val of both their
ignorance and their innocence. Before opening
the kitchen door, to which he had tiptoed, he
paused and listened. There came to his ears only
the smothered laughter and chatter, common of
º
THE DE SILLE MURDER IO3
the colored caste and kind. When he opened the
door the three blacks turned shy and wonder-
smitten, saying nothing. Inspector Val looked them
over with his cold eye, and came away, leaving
the astonished Africans as mute as stone posts.
“They know no more,” he said to himself, “of
what has taken place than a trio of blackbirds.”
Inspector Val returned to the second floor and
opened the housekeeper's door. That lady, tears
silently flowing, was still at the window, a picture
of subdued grief.
“Who was Mr. De Sille's family physician **
he asked. -
“Doctor Bellaire.”
“And his lawyer f"
“Judge Tuffts.”
“I shall call these gentlemen to the house.
I shall remain until they come. For the time
being, I must beg you to keep your room.”
“And Master John ”
“You must wait, madam.”
When Inspector Val returned to Mr. Sorg and
young Steendam, the latter had completed his
dressing.
“And now, gentlemen f° he asked.
Inspector Val led the way downstairs. Young
Steendam came next, while the cautious Mr. Sorg
brought up the rear.
104 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
“Let us go into the library,” said Inspector Val.
Unlocking the door, he stepped aside for young
Steendam to pass before him. Both Inspector
Val and Mr. Sorg canvassed their man narrowly
as he pushed open the door; the ordeal had been
planned to break him down.
For a moment young Steendam stood gazing
at the dead body of his uncle. He uttered no word,
made no sign, gave forth no cry of either horror
or surprise. He simply stood and stared. The
bluff color had been driven from his cheek, and
his face was as pale as paper.
After a brief pause, in which he rocked a little
on his feet, like one unsteady with drink, young
Steendam began to command himself. He went
close to the dead man, and tried to lift the hand.
The stiffness and the chill of it seemed to smite
him to the bone, and he shrunk back. Straight-
ening himself, he came round on his heel to
Inspector Val.
“Who did this f" he whispered.
“That is the question. Until it is answered,
we shall be obliged to detain you upon the charge
of murder.” Then to Mr. Sorg: “Take the
prisoner to the station house. Tell Mr. Bowles
to come here; I shall stay until he appears.”
II
THE MAN WITH THE CRUTCH
w OUNG STEENDAM neither winced nor
shivered, when the dread charge of
murder was laid against him; he bent
his glance on his dead relative, and was as one
who only half hears and does not at all understand.
“He’s our man for sure!” observed Mr. Sorg,
in low, satisfied tones. “See how easy he takes it.”
“You can tell nothing from that,” returned
Inspector Val, tones equally guarded. “I knew
a man whose wife died while he was on the ocean
homeward bound. The news met him as he came
down the gang-plank. Where he expected to
find loving arms and warm, sweet lips, he was
shown a week-old grave. The word of his loss
wrung from him neither tear nor moan nor sigh
nor cry, and a thick world looking on spoke of
his hardness and cold indifference. In a fort-
night, that strong man was laid in the grave by
the side of the one he had worshipped; the blow,
that no one thought he felt, had pierced his heart
like an icicle. You argue, Sorg, that young
Steendam killed his uncle, because he seems calm
105
Iof CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
and steady. On the other hand, if he were the
murderer, would he not rave and exclaim and
lament And all to show how deeply he was
shocked and how hard he grieved fº
“Then you’ve changed your mind,” observed
Mr. Sorg, in dismay. “You don’t think he's the
murderer now **
“Now I never thought so. We shall, since
it is the obvious thing to do, lock him up until
after the coroner makes his inquiry. But, take
my word for it, he's not our man.”
“Who then P”
“Look for a cripple with a crutch. Also,
look for the woman who was his companion.”
“The woman, and a cripple with a crutch!”
repeated the astonished Mr. Sorg.
Young Steendam prepared to accompany Mr.
Sorg to the cells. On their journey down the
hallway, Inspector Val asked:
“Was your uncle left-handed ?”
“Left-handed ?” repeated young Steendam, ab-
sently. Then recalling himself: “Oh yes!—yes,
he was left-handed.”
The next day Inspector Val was much abroad
in the town. It was late in the afternoon when
Mr. Sorg had passing word with him.
“Judge Tuffts is the executor of De Sille's will,”
said Mr. Sorg. “Young Steendam is the sole heir.”
THE MAN WITH THE CRUTCH 107
“I’ve known that for some time,” replied
Inspector Val.
“But doesn’t the latter fact offer a motive º’”
“It would offer a perfect motive, if young Steen-
dam had done the deed.”
“For the life of me, I can’t see anything else for
it!” urged Mr. Sorg, “Mr. De Sille is killed any
time between ten and three o’clock. We find the
nephew upstairs soaked in blood. He quarrelled
with his uncle at nine; the latter threatened to
disinherit him. Within six hours the uncle is
dead, and in comes the will making the nephew
heir to millions. You recall, too, that no window
was forced.”
“My dear Sorg,” said Inspector Val, “I recall
it all—every step of the transaction as you relate
it. Your theory would be unanswerable if it were
not for one thing; it has one weak point.”
“And what is that ?”
“The weak point is this,” replied Inspector Val,
banteringly. “Young Steendam is not the guilty
man. What! Are you still unconvinced Here,
I owe you something. Be in my office at four
o'clock to-morrow.”
It was the following afternoon. The hands of
the clock stood at four precisely, when a man,
accompanied by a woman thickly veiled, was
shown into the private rooms of Inspector Val,
IOS CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
where the latter was seated with Mr. Sorg. The
man was a Hercules, or perhaps a Vulcan would
be better, since his right leg was twisted and
misshapen, and sensibly shorter than its fellow.
His face was dark, forceful, and gloomy. The
woman, or rather girl, was slight, but well rounded
and pretty, if one might guess at the fact through
the folds of her veil. The thing that emphasized
itself upon the attention of Mr. Sorg was the
heavy ebony crutch, wherewith the man assisted
himself.
“I am addressing Inspector Val, I believe,”
said the man, as he and his companion were
shown in. .
“Quite right,” replied Inspector Val. “And
you are Mr. Martin Dodge. This is Mr. Sorg,
my assistant.” Then, as he placed a chair for
the girl, who had not spoken: “I trust, Miss
Upton, you will pardon me for bringing you here;
under the circumstances, I had no choice. Be
seated, Mr. Dodge.”
“You have our names,” responded Mr. Dodge,
‘and our address, as one may see by your note,
telling me to come and bring Miss Upton. Nor
shall I pretend that I have no surmise as to what
has brought us here. Your purpose is to arrest
me for the murder of De Sille.”
“Your arrest is as yet in the air, and depends
&
THE MAN WITH THE CRUTCH 109
upon the finding of the coroner, which will doubt-
less be made before the hour is out. The exam-
ination by Dr. Bellaire and the coroner's physician,
is expected to settle that point. Should they say
the blows you dealt him were the immediate
reason of Mr. De Sille's death, you will be held
for the crime of murder.”
The girl gave a sharp cry. “Oh Martin!”
she wailed; “it was I who brought this trouble
on you!”
“It was no fault of yours, Sallie,” returned Mr.
Dodge, who held himself, for all the dread word
“murder,” both cool and steady; “it was the
fault of that wretch De Sille.” Then, to Inspector
Val: “It is a sad business, but what I did I would
do again. Your note, however, was written
yesterday: Why did you wait until to-day to bring
me here P’’
“I thought it best to first have the autopsy, and
the finding of the coroner. I was taking no risk;
for twenty-four hours you have been under my
hand and my eye.”
“Well,” responded Mr. Dodge, drawing a deep
troubled breath, “I perhaps ought to say in my
own defense, that I should have come to you
yesterday morning, save for the pleadings of Miss
Upton, who, as you imagine, was left fairly
distracted by what had occurred. What is it you
I to CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
desire A full recital of our trouble with De
Sille, I suppose.”
“I’ve no right to ask you to furnish evidence
against yourself. I shall tell you, however, what
I already know, and you can then judge whether
you are to help or hurt your case by adding to it.”
“Go on.” -
“I know then that, when you were twelve, your
father, a widower, married the mother of Miss
Upton. Miss Upton's mother was a widow,
and Miss Upton herself a child of three. Two
years later your father died. Mr. Baldwin, of
the Colony Trust, was appointed your guardian,
and you have lived ever since with your step-
mother who, so to phrase it, brought you up. In
brief, your family now consists of your step-mother,
Miss Upton, and yourself. You are a bachelor
and wealthy. Miss Upton and her mother are
also independently rich.”
“You have my story exact.” -
“So much for your past; now, to get down to
the present. Night before last, at eleven o’clock,
you and Miss Upton went to the house of Mr.
De Sille in Washington Square. You walked, for
the distance is nothing, even for your lameness,
since your own house is no more than a couple
of blocks away in Fifth Avenue. Besides, you
didn't want a coachman to know of your visit.
THE MAN WITH THE CRU. TCH III
Mr. De Sille himself let you in. You went to the
library. There you had a quarrel. He drew a
pistol. You struck him across the wrist with
your crutch, and the pistol dropped from his
hand.”
At the suggestion of the blow, a confirmatory
scowl darkened the brow of Mr. Dodge.
“Either before or after he drew the pistol, you
dealt Mr. De Sille a blow on the temple with your
crutch. Also, it was the foot of the crutch that
cut the gash in his cheek. Miss Upton endeavored
to get between you and Mr. De Sille, and either
you or he grasped her by the wrist in putting
her aside.”
“How should you know that f°
“How It was told me by a gewgaw. To go
on: In the fireplace you burned a package of
papers or letters, which was taken from the safe.
Your nerve must have been perfect, for at that
time Mr. De Sille was lying dead in his chair, and
yet you never left me so much as one unburned
shaving of those documents. Miss Upton, I can
well believe, was overcome by what she had
witnessed. When you had finished with the
papers, and she had recovered, you let yourselves
out through the front door, which locked behind
you. There you have what I know of this somber
business; the question I am unable to answer is
I 12 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
the question of motive. What brought you and
Miss Upton to Mr. De Sille's house ? Being there,
what moved you to strike him These queries
doubtless would have been fully replied to by those
papers which you burned; but, as I’ve already stated,
your destruction of them was quite complete.”
While Inspector Val was talking, Mr. Dodge,
albeit his expression showed that he appreciated
the peril under which he stood, checked off the
truth of what was related with exclamations and
nods of affirmation. Miss Upton sat rigid and
still; save for the single outburst recorded, she
offered neither motion nor word. As Inspector
Val ended, and Mr. Dodge was about to speak,
the desk telephone rang.
“Well ?” said Inspector Val, putting the receiver
to his ear. “Yes!—You’re sure ?—Thanks!—I’m
glad to hear it.”
“The coroner?” asked Mr. Dodge; and, for all
the iron will of the man, there was a tremor in his
voice.
“Mr. Dodge,” replied Inspector Val, as he
hung the receiver on its hook, “I shall not prolong
your anxiety. The examination shows that Mr.
De Sille died from heart failure, and not as the
result of your blows. Still, while that disposes of
the charge of murder, there are the blows and the
burning of the papers ?”
THE MAN WITH THE CRUTCH 113
“I will gladly tell the entire story,” broke in Mr.
Dodge. “What you have said concerning the
visit to De Sille's, and what took place, is
true. Those details you failed to give, and the
motive, I am only too ready to supply. When
you have heard them, you will absolve both Miss
Upton and myself from even a shadow of blame.
I take it that I need not particularly describe De
Sille, or the character of man he was.”
“It is unnecessary. I knew him, sort and
fiber, like a book.”
“Then you knew him for the sinister secret man
he was, with few acquaintances and fewer friends.
Among those to whom he was well known, Miss
Upton's mother must be numbered. My own
acquaintance with him was but casual; I avoided
him as much as I might, for I disliked the man.
His acquaintance at our house was really with
Miss Upton's mother. Twenty-five years ago,
he had been closely connected with Mr. Upton,
possibly as a partner in business; at that time,
and in that way, he met Miss Upton’s mother.”
Mr. Dodge hesitated; Inspector Val signed him
to go on.
“Now comes the painful part,” continued Mr.
Dodge, after a pause, “but I must speak freely.
Either before or at the time of Mr. Upton's death,
De Sille got possession of divers documents, let-
114 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
ters mainly, which showed that Mr. Upton had
been guilty of money crimes against the gov-
ernment. I shall not particularize; it is enough
that they were offences both penal and disgraceful.
The fact that Mr. Upton had been guilty of these
crimes, was known only to De Sille, and had slept
with him for the full quarter of a century. Why
he had preserved the proof of them I cannot
tell.”
“If those proofs,” interjected Inspector Val,
“were calculated to give Mr. De Sille power over
any living being, that is your answer. He might
one day want to exercise that power, and he would
hoard it as a miser hoards his gold.”
“Doubtless you are right. The earliest news,
however, that either Miss Upton or her mother
was given of it, came about in this fashion. De
Sille, continuing a former acquaintance in an
intermittent way, was wont at long intervals to call
upon Miss Upton’s mother. Months used to
elapse between these calls. That was in the
beginning. Within the year past, however, they
became more frequent, and the truth came out
one day that he, De Sille, while over sixty, had
fallen in love with Miss Upton. He was infat-
uated with her.”
Inspector Val glanced at Miss Upton, who sunk
her veiled face still lower.
THE MAN WITH THE CRUTCH 115
“The situation might have had its comic side,
if De Sille had been less fiercely in earnest. He
urged and begged and wept while he declared
his love, and at last when he could make no head-
way, began to threaten. Even then the threats
were vague and formless, and it was not until he
heard of Miss Upton's engagement in marriage to
a young gentleman of the town, and how her
marriage had been fixed for the last of March,
that his menaces took definite shape. That was a
fortnight ago, and he signalized it by sending Miss
Upton a letter, saying that he would disgrace her
with the story of her father's guilt; and, as proof
of his power to do so, enclosed an old letter in her
father's handwriting, sufficient of itself to show
all the black things he claimed. He said that
many more letters, of similar import, remained in
his hands. These he declared he would submit
to the man that Miss Upton was about to marry.
Also, he would give copies to the papers, and
exhibit her father as a criminal, whose villainies
had escaped detection while he lived.”
“An amiable character, this Mr. De Sille,”
commented Inspector Val; “an amiable sort,
indeed.”
“It was at this pinch that I first learned of De
Sille's crazy infatuation for Miss Upton, and the
revenge he aimed at because of her refusal to favor
II6 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
him. Miss Upton and her mother brought me
his letter, and the long-ago criminal letter of Mr.
Upton, and threw themselves upon my protection.
I was deeply stirred. Miss Upton for years had
been as dear to me as my own blood sister could
have been; her mother had given me a mother's
love. My impulse was to seek De Sille, take him
by the throat, and make those letters the instant
price of his life. I am hot-tempered, and I may
add, resolute; to throttle De Sille was my first
thought. In the end, while my resolution was
firmly fixed to have those letters, I so far cooled
as to go about their capture more warily. I took
occasion to meet De Sille, and gave him to under-
stand that I disapproved of Miss Upton's coming
marriage. I said that I had read his own letter
to her, and the enclosed letter of her father; I,
in brief, offered to become his ally. Encouraged
by the eagerness with which he heard me, I even
volunteered advice:
“‘Believe me,” I said, ‘Miss Upton well knows
that the young fellow to whom she's engaged—
a slip of our local nobility, he is—will never make
her his wife, once this story of her father’s wrong-
doing gets out. Convince her of your power;
and, to save herself and her father's memory, she
will break off with this lover.’
“Then I suggested that De Sille bring those
THE MAN WITH THE CRUTCH 117
letters and papers, that bore upon her father's
guilty practices, to our house. By showing them
to Miss Upton, we could prove how desperate was
her case; their mere accumulation, and the reading
of them, one by one, would break the back of her
resolution.”
“And, if he had brought them,” said Inspector
Val, “it was your purpose to take them from him
by force.”
“Precisely! To give the devil his due, how-
ever, I don’t think De Sille was misled by me.
It is likely that he thought a full exhibition of
his proofs a valuable idea, and resolved to adopt
it. At the same time, he cautiously decided to
avoid risk, by appointing the meeting for his own
house instead of ours. I was chagrined at his
shifting the theater for the conference to his own
library, but was compelled to accept. The hour
arranged was eleven o’clock night before last.
Miss Upton, when I told her, shrank from the
meeting, but despair gave her courage to go
through with it. As you have stated, we called
at De Sille's house, and it was he who opened the
door to us. Once in his library, the pistol con-
cealed in his pocket giving him confidence, he
opened the safe which held those papers from
which Miss Upton had so much to fear. He took
out one package, and sat down in his arm-chair.”
I 18 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
“And thereupon, without a word, you fell upon
him.”
“Quite so! It was then, without parley, I
sprang towards him. I had no fear; I am very
strong in my hands and arms, and felt that once
I got my ten fingers on him, I might, if I could,
wring his neck round like a chicken's. He had,
however, some slight space for defense. Because
of my crippled condition, I came on rather slowly,
and before I had half covered the distance between
us, I was facing a pistol. He did not fire; he
reckoned on the sight of the weapon holding me
in check. In that he fell into error; life or death,
I had made up my mind to have those papers. At
the moment he pointed his revolver, I flourished
up my crutch, and struck him across the wrist.”
Here Miss Upton appeared almost overcome.
Mr. Sorg, at a motion from Inspector Val, brought
her a glass of water.
Mr. Dodge resumed: “A cripple, who goes all
his life on a crutch, grows in time to regard it, not
only as a support, but as a weapon, and becomes
expert in parrying or striking with it. As I tell
you, I struck De Sille across the wrist, and the
pistol fell to the floor. He attempted to re-
possess himself of it, and I struck him a second and
a third time—the second blow cutting his cheek.
At the third blow—the one on the temple—he
THE MAN WITH THE CRUTCH 119
fell back in his chair, as I thought, stunned. It
was after the first blow, which disarmed him, and
just as I delivered the second, that Miss Upton—
although I can’t see how you deduced the fact—
threw herself between us. The movement was
a together impulsive, and meant to save me from
his pistol. As he staggered back from the blow
on his cheek, he clutched Miss Upton by the
wrist. At the third blow, which left him senseless,
he released her; and she, almost as much stunned
by what had passed as was De Sille himself, man-
aged to feel her way to a sofa, upon which she fell.
I looked for the tumult and knocking about to
alarm the house, and was determined that, happen
what might, those letters should at least be de-
stroyed. A fire blazed in the grate. Without paus-
ing to investigate the condition of either Miss Upton
or De Sille, I seized the package that had fallen
from his hands and threw it in the flames. Going
to the safe I got the rest of the letters, and two
small account books marked ‘Giles Upton,’ and
in a trice had them blazing with the others. I
lacked time to make a thorough examination of
the safe's contents, so, to insure a clean sweep, I
burned everything I found in it.”
“That I can guarantee.”
“When all was blazing merrily, I paused to
look about me. The amazing thing was the fact
I2O CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
of no interruption; the noise of the scuffle had
reached the ears of no one. As I turned from
the fireplace, after seeing the last letter consumed,
Miss Upton began to recover her energies. My
only thought now was to get her out of the house,
without interference or discovery. You are not
to forget that, while De Sille was already dead,
I had not the least glint of it. I looked for him
to revive at any moment. With such the expec-
tation, I hurried the departure of Miss Upton all
I knew. I got her from the library to the street
door, and, with every precaution against noise, let
ourselves into Washington Square. As you have
said, it is but a step around the corner to our own
house, and within five minutes after we quitted
the De Sille library, we were home.”
“And then P”
“My feeling was one of relief; I was even elated.
I was overtaken by no feeling of compunction.
The letters were the property, not of De Sille, but
of Miss Upton and her mother, and should have
been in their hands, not his. I had but taken
their own. As for the blows, they were a right
response to the pistol he had been so swift to
present. Thus ran my thoughts in self-exonera-
tion. As to what explanation De Sille might
give concerning his wounds, I had no fear. In all
probability he would invent a tale about a struggle
THE MAN WITH THE CRU. TCH I2 I
and a burglar. I was a bit surprised when, about
noon, I heard a newsboy crying an extra, ‘All
about the Murder in Washington Square!' It was
then I gained my earliest knowledge of De Sille's
death. There you have my whole story; and now
I can only wait for your further action in the affair.”
As Mr. Dodge finished, he folded his hands on
the arm-rest of the ebony crutch, and looked at
Inspector Val as though inviting judgment. The
latter did not keep him in suspense.
“My only action,” said he, “will be to offer
congratulations for a brave and gallant deed.
There, no thanks! You are free to return to
your own house. Should the department at any .
time have further questions to ask you—and I
don’t believe it will—I’ll notify you of the fact.
Meanwhile,” and Inspector Val crossed to Miss
Upton, “it is hardly necessary to say that what
has been told will be kept secret.”
“Ah, thank you!” cried Miss Upton, speaking
to Inspector Val for the first time. “You have
lifted a load from my heart! Believe me, my
concern was for my dear mother, as much as for
myself or Mr. Dodge,” and her grateful eyes
shone like jewels through her veil.
“Before you go,” said Inspector Val, as she and
Mr. Dodge made preparations to depart, “let we
give you a trinket that you lost.”
I22 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
Miss Upton glanced at the gold bead he placed
in her gloved palm. “It’s from my old Florentine
bracelet!” she said.
“It was lying in a corner of the library. Mr.
De Sille accidentally tore it off when he grasped
you by the wrist.”
“You are right,” said Mr. Dodge. “I know
he broke the bracelet, for I myself picked it off the
floor. Miss Upton did not observe that a bead
was missing. I begin to understand! It was
through the bead you found us. And yet I don’t
see how.”
“The bead and the crutch. However, I shall
say nothing more; I make it an unbreakable rule
never to talk shop,” and Inspector Val bowed
Miss Upton and Mr. Dodge into the corridor.
Mr. Sorg sat moistening his lips expectantly,
swollen with curiosity.
“Let us first restore the innocent to liberty,”
said Inspector Val, as though replying to the
question in Mr. Sorg's eyes. “Then I'll tell all
there is to tell, the same being less than you
think. Send for young Steendam.”
Inspector Val, upon the arrival of that gentle-
man, told young Steendam he was free. “Your
innocence I never doubted,” said he; “but I.
could do no less in the premises than detain you.
I never thought you a murderer; indeed, it may
THE MAN WITH THE CRUTCH 123
relieve you to know that no murder was com-
mitted. The examination discloses that your
uncle died of a malady of the heart, which had
threatened him for years.” -
“But the bruises and the cut on his cheek P’’
“That I’ll answer on some later day. For the
present, be content with your freedom. By the
way”—as young Steendam's hand was on the
knob-" I would advise you to stick to that
anti-wine resolution. Also present my apologies
to Mrs. Agnew, your late uncle's housekeeper,
for any personal inconvenience we caused her.”
“And now, Inspector,” said Mr. Sorg, rubbing
his coarse palms in a kind of happy anticipation,
“tell me, now we’re alone, how you did it. When
we found young Steendam covered with blood
after hearing the housekeeper's story, I would have
staked my position that he was the guilty man.
The housekeeper herself thought so.”
“I know,” replied Inspector Val. “Her tears
were for young Steendam, rather than his uncle.
Like you, she saw only the blood on him, and
went no deeper. This should be a warning to you,
Sorg, to beware of the coincidental. It is your
prime fault, in common with certain other philos-
ophers, that you are prone to mistake coincidence
for cause and effect. The blood-stained hand-
kerchief alone was fairly a proof that young
12, CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
Steendam's story was true. There was no chance
of his handkerchief becoming soaked with the
blood of the dead De Sille, while it would be the
first creature thing to suffer in event of nosebleed.
Besides, where was the bludgeon he used Being
too drunk to hide the other evidences of his guilt,
he would have been too drunk to hide the
weapon, and yet from top to bottom of the pre-
mises there wasn’t the sign of an instrument
that could have inflicted those wounds on Mr. De
Sille. Yes, I’m wrong! There were four signs
—those scars in the plush of the carpet! Now I
could think of but one thing that ought to make
those marks, and that was the foot of a crutch.
The plush, in one of them, was not only pressed
flat, as indicating a heavy weight, but it had been
ground or twisted. That was done, just as Dodge
up with the crutch and knocked the pistol from
De Sille's hand. This could be positively deter-
mined by the lay of the flattened plush itself.
It was patent even to the unassisted eye. Then
the blood spots in another of the scars helped
along this conclusion. Both from the wounds,
which were too big to have been the work of a
cane, and the scars on the carpet, I could infer
nothing save a crutch as the weapon employed.
Given the crutch, the lame man occurred, of
course.’
THE MAN WITH THE CRUTCH as
9
“Grant all that,” said Mr. Sorg, who was fol-
lowing his chief with deepest interest, “you don’t
mean that you’ve made a count of all the cripples
in New York, and fastened upon this Dodge fº
“It was not by the crutch, but by the bead that
I back-tracked these people. I know something
of jewelry and jewelers. The bead was hammer-
work—Florentine, and very old. Also, the new
brazing about one of the links showed it to have
been recently mended. Whoever mended it would
remember it; the bead possessed too many
peculiarities to escape identification by an expert
who had ever held it in his fingers. Now, ob-
serve how readily and simply the problem works
out. The whole number of journeymen gold-
Smiths in this city is not great; one of them must
recently have had that mended bead in his hands.
Among the several with whom I am. acquainted,
is a shrewd old Hollander, who lives in Greenwich
Street. I took the bead to him, and sent him
forth on the hunt. Within three hours he brought
me the goldsmith, a Swiss, who had mended it.
The Swiss said the bead belonged to a bracelet
that had been put in his hands by the Tiffanys, the
firm for which he worked. It was through the
Tiffanys’ books that I got Miss Upton's name
and address. They demurred; but I told them
I had found the bead and wanted to restore it to
126 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
the owner. Then they opened up. Once I
located Miss Upton, I located Mr. Dodge. A
dozen questions, put in proper quarters, gave me
his description and his past. The situation
supported my theory of a man with a crutch,
accompanied by a woman. The housekeeper,
hearing the door slam, had been able to fix the
hour of their visit. I wrote Mr. Dodge to call on
me. He was bound to come; he couldn’t get
away; with your knowledge of police business it is
superfluous to tell you that I have held his house
under guard since ever his name and identity
became known to me. Had he tried to walk off,
he would have been picked up directly.”
“It’s all,” said Mr. Sorg, with a sigh, “simple
enough when you tell it. And yet that very
simplicity teaches me—who was so utterly wrong
in my conclusions—that I’m altogether a dolt, and
unfit for Central Office work.” This last lugu-
briously.
“And there I contradict you, Sorg,” replied
Inspector Val, with a laugh. “You’ve the three
grand requisites that should belong to one who is
to act as my partner. You’ve the thews of a
buffalo, the courage of a bulldog, and the docility
of a Scotch collie in following directions. I shall
never want a better at my elbow.”
THE MAN WEHO FLEW
I
THE TRACKS IN THE SNOW
Iº VAL was giving Mr. Sorg his
views on East Side crime, considered in
connection with those nationalities dominant
of that feverish region—the Italian and the
Russian Jew. In the midst of a convincing period,
Mr. Bowles interrupted the discussion.
“Inspector,” said Mr. Bowles, “there’s a man
outside—quite excited, he is—who says he must
see you at once. He declined to state his business.
The name he gave is Berks—Mr. Berks.”
“Berks,” repeated Inspector Val. “Never heard
it. However, show him in. I shall be glad if
there’s foundation for his excitement, as I feel
like stretching my mental legs.”
Mr. Berks was a globular person, of middle age
and farmerish look. He wore a catskin cap that
had not been new for years. For all his look of
agriculture, Mr. Berks did not have the air of
independence that belongs with one who plows
and plants his own acres. Rather he resembled a
man who tilled the estate of some rich overling,
to whom his attitude was the attitude of service.
129
130 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
His moonlike face showed anxiety and fright.
Inspector Val pushed a chair toward him, and
Mr. Berks sat down on the edge.
“Take your time, Mr. Berks,” said Inspector
Val, for he saw that his visitor was a bit shaken,
either by his police surroundings or the story he
had come to tell. “Take your time.”
Inspector Val had the gift—manner and eye
and tone—of inspiring nervous folk with confi-
dence. A look of partial comfort stole into the
broad visage of Mr. Berks; he heaved a sigh as
though his burdens were already lighter.
“Tell me your story,” continued Inspector
Val; “for I can see that you have one to tell.”
“Ay!” said Mr. Berks, with a touch of Devon-
shire in his accents, “ay! I’ve a story for sure.
Let me begin this way. Me and my Missus keeps
Judge Bannister's country house through the
winter—sort o' caretakers like. You may know
where it is, sir; Fordham Heights, on the West-
chester side of the Harlem. Well, there’s been no-
body in the house since November but me and my
Missus, and a coachman kind of fellow of the name
of James Settle. He looked after a pair of horses
and five cows, that were being wintered at the place.
There wasn’t much to do: get up the fire wood,
feed the horses and cows, and milk the latter—
in short do chores like. It was last night about
THE TRACKS IN THE SNOW 131
ten o’clock, and Jim—that’s what me and my
Missus always called Settle—started for the barn
to shake down a lock of hay for the horses. It's
a goodish stretch from the house to the barn, and
when Jim was about one hundred yards from the
house, say within twenty yards of the barn, I
heerd him give a screech. It was awful, that
screech! Not so loud, mind, but just the sort
that sends a shiver along your skin. For all it
scared me faint, I ran to the back door—me and
my Missus was sitting in the kitchen—but I was
too late. Jim was gone.”
“Gone! Where had he gone?”
“That I don’t know, sir!” Mr. Berks lowered
his voice as though both puzzled and terrified.
“It was like glamour or witchery. Jim just went
away through the air.”
Inspector Val shot a swift glance at Mr. Berks.
Was his caller crazy? Or was it merely the spell
of strong drink Clearly neither.
“What makes you say that Settle went away
through the air f*
“Because it was from up high his voice sounded.”
“His voice P”
“Yes, sir; he called down to me—called to me
twice.”
“What sort of cry? Terror *
“Why, yes—terror, sir! But he spoke words,
132 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
too. He says: ‘Oh, it’s got me!’ Then a little
later and further away: ‘It’s got me!' That was
the last I heerd ”
“What did you do next?”
“Well, me and my Missus closed the door, and
sat down without speaking a word. We sat there
quite a spell, for we was main frightened. Then
I begun to get a little courage. I lit a lantern,
and said I’d go and see what had happened Jim.”
“And you started for the barn ?”
“Why, yes! I held the lantern low, and kept
following Jim's tracks, to see where they ended,
and if any queer marks of whatever took him
would show in the snow. You remember it
snowed an inch or so about eight o'clock last
night. That made it easy to follow Jim's tracks,
as they were the first that had been made since
the storm.”
“You didn’t walk in the tracks ''
“Oh, no; I walked to one side, as did my Missus
who came with me. Jim's tracks are there yet
for anybody to see.”
“Good!”
“As I said, about one hundred yards from
the house the tracks ended. There was a lot
of footprints in the snow, but they had all been
made by Jim. It was as though he struggled
against being borne away.”
THE TRACKS IN THE SNOW 133
“Last night,” said Inspector Val, as though
confirming a point of weather, “after the snow
had ceased to fall, it was dark and still—a quiet
night.”
“Ay! a dark, still night, sir!”
“And your story, as I understand, is that at
ten o’clock, while Settle was on his way to the barn,
some thing or creature swooped down on him.”
“What else There were his tracks as plain as
life, walking out into the snow. Of a sudden they
end without turning back. Then, after that first
screech, he called to me twice from out of the air—
a goodish piece up he was, the last time, too; I
could but hear him.”
“And his words were: ‘It’s got me!”
“Precisely! ‘Oh! it’s got me!’ he cries. Then
again: ‘It’s got me!’ I’ll not have forgotten,
for it makes me shudder to my heart.”
“But with the night so still, didn't you hear
any other sound **
“There was a dull beating of wings, maybel”
said Mr. Berks, again sinking his voice and glanc-
ing furtively about. “At least it sounded like
wings—a great muffled heavy flutter of something.”
“Do you believe in ghosts, Mr. Berks f"
“Now I don’t exactly know, neither!” returned
Mr. Berks, a trifle shamed, but dogged. “Isn’t
Jim being taken away like the work of a witch
134 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
or warlock —something demoniac, to put it the
fairest ?” .
“What do you say, Sorg?” asked Inspector
Val, wheeling on his assistant, who had heard
Mr. Berks with greedy ears. “Are you for demon-
ology f"
“The condor,” said Mr. Sorg, solemnly, as
though reciting from a book—“the condor of
the Andes is the largest bird of prey in the world.
Haven’t they got a condor in the Bronx Zoo Pº
“Dismiss the condor, Sorg,” said Inspector
Val, beginning to laugh. “The biggest condor,
on the tallest peak of the Andes, would find its
work cut out to manage thirty pounds, travelers’
tales to the contrary notwithstanding. There
never was the bird large enough, and strong
enough, to carry off a man, since the great roc
helped Sinbad the Sailor out of the Valley of
Diamonds.” Then to Mr. Berks: “I think I’ll
go out to the Bannister place with you.” -
“I wish you would! I'd take it very kindly,
sir! Surely something ought to be done about
Jim.”
“Assuredly! We must puzzle out this riddle!
Nothing will have obliterated those tracks ''
“Oh, no! My Missus wouldn’t stay when I
left; she went to a neighbor’s. There's been no
one at the place to destroy the tracks.”
THE TRACKS IN THE SNOW 135
y
“I’ll go alone, Sorg,
looking at his watch.
“Have you adopted any theory f" asked Mr.
Sorg.
“I never adopt a theory. I wait for a theory
to adopt me.”
The Bannister place was a great stone house.
The barn was distant about thirty rods from the
house. The grounds were, in shape, a long
rectangle and measured forty acres. There were
shrubbery and bushes and a few small trees about
the house, and in a far corner of the grounds to
the west was a clump of native forest trees—
full-grown maples and beeches and oaks. The
snow-hidden expanse, between the house and barn
lay open and free of trees or shrubs, being in
summer given over to flower-beds and grass.
The house, with the barn a little to the north
and west of it, stood on a point of land high above
the Harlem River, of which one could get a shim-
mering glimpse through the bare winter-stripped
trees. From the house, westward, the land fell
away sharply to an old road running north and
south. This road marked the western boundary
of the Bannister domain. Between the road and
the river, separated from the road by a thickly
wooded strip, was a railway track.
observed Inspector Val,
Mr. Berks had not erred in any particular con-
136 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
cerning the trail in the snow. There, as obvious
as a page of print, the white snow showed where
Settle had walked towards the barn. Then of a
sudden the end came in a confused flurry of
tracks—not many, nor running away, but all col-
lected within a diameter of four feet, and telling
of that horror and stampede of wits which Settle
must have tasted before he was carried off. His
fate, too, whatever it was, had come upon him
like a clap of thunder; he neither saw nor heard
it in its descent; for the tracks, up to the point of
disappearance, showed measured and steady, as
though the mind of him who made them were
at tranquil ease.
Directly westward from where the tracks ended,
and distant two hundred feet, was a thick-boughed
dogwood tree. The dogwood stood alone, the
only notable feature of what in July days would
be a lawn. Inspector Val, after a glance at
Settle's tracks, considered the dogwood briefly,
as though he fancied it might have some connection
with the enigma he was trying to solve. But in
the end his eyes came back to the footprints of
the lost man; he bent over them long and thought-
fully.
The situation possessed a sinister savor—this
even procession of tracks; and then to mysteriously
end, as though he who made them had been snuffed
THE TRACKS IN THE SNOW 137
away without warning. Inspector Val examined
track after track, to make certain that Settle, in
some crazy or criminal freak, had not maneuvered
a return by walking backward, setting each foot
in the prints it made in coming. No such miracle
of pedestrianism had been performed; the im-
prints told of but one pressure of the foot, no more.
Inspector Val called Mr. Berks’ attention to
the fact that the trail ran unalarmed and steady
up to that small circumscribed flurry of terror
that told the end.
“It is as open as a book,” said he, “that Settle
had never a breath of warning. How comes it
then that you, twenty rods and more away, could
hear a dull beating of wings f"
“Jim was very deaf, sir! You had to shout to
make him hear. My Missus, her voice not being
over-strong, couldn't talk with him at all.”
Mrs. Berks, observing the coming of her husband
and Inspector Val, had returned from the neigh-
bors; Inspector Val had got a glimpse of her
through the kitchen window.
“Remain here!” he said to Mr. Berks.
Mrs. Berks did not offer those rotund pleasant
proportions that distinguished her good man.
She was thin, with a shy black eye, and looked
a year or two further along than did Mr. Berks.
138 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
She bobbed an old-fashioned curtesy to Inspector
Val, who addressed her directly.
“Mr. Berks and I were talking of Settle. Had
you known him long **
“I should say the better part of a year.” Mrs.
Berks spoke in a birdlike treble.
“Was he companionable Did he talk much f"
“No, sir; he was a silent man, though that
may have been his hearing. It was hard to make
him hear, sir; a body couldn’t have much talk
with him.”
That question of deafness seemed answered,
and Inspector Val turned away to Mr. Berks,
who had remained near the barn.
As he stepped from the kitchen door, he ob-
served that Mr. Berks was in talk with a stranger.
Both Mr. Berks and the stranger seemed greatly
excited. They met him midway between house
and barn.
“This is Mr. Stearns, sir,” said Mr. Berks,
hurriedly, “a neighbor down the hill. He's
found Settle, sir!”
“He’s dead by the railway track,” broke in
Mr. Stearns, who was no one to let another tell
his news for him. “My cow, Bossy, was out along
the track, and I was afeard for her, so says I to
my wife, ‘Betsy, I’ll go drive up Bossy.” I ain’t
gone fifty yards, when I sees a bundle of rags
THE TRACKS IN THE SNOW 139
ahead lying by the rails. At first I think it's
baggage from a train; but when I gets to it,
there it is Jim Settle, sure enough. Only I’d
never knowed the face—which was past all recog-
nizing. It must have been the train struck him,
Berks,” concluded Mr. Stearns.
“Lead us to the place,” said Inspector Val.
Settle's body lay by the railway track, but so
much under the lea of a sharp embankment as
to be out of sight from a train. It was rigid and
cold. Both body and limbs were so twisted as
to show that not a sound bone remained in the
skin. The snow was about two inches deep, and
three feet from where the body lay clewed up in a
broken heap was a great splotch, as though the
body had originally struck there, and then bounded
from the hard frozen earth to its present position.
The snow, for six inches about the body, was
red with the ooze of blood. As Mr. Stearns had
stated, the features were not to be recognized.
The clothes were enough, however; Mr. Berks,
as well as Mr. Stearns, knew them for the clothes
of Settle.
While the body was crushed and bruised, and
every bone broken, there was but one rent in the
clothing. The coat had been ripped, the tear
extending from the collar backward and down-
ward over the right shoulder, to a place near the
140 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
small of the back. Not alone the coat, but the
waistcoat and thick woolen shirts of the dead man
were correspondingly torn, and a ragged gash
gaped in the back and shoulder muscles, where
the flesh was laid open to the bone.
Inspector Val made a most minute examination.
When he straightened up he had his eye admir-
ingly on Mr. Stearns.
“This is a most important discovery!” Mr.
Stearns swelled with pride, being a true ruralist,
and was elated to thus find himself a center of
interest and encomium. “Since it was you who
found the body, it is your privilege to notify the
coroner. The nearest telephone station will call
him.”
Mr. Stearns was off like an arrow; he did not
propose to lose one syllable of that celebration,
which should belong to a first and weighty witness
at the inquest.
“You said nothing, I hope,” observed Inspector
Val to Mr. Berks, when they were again alone,
“as to the manner of Settle's disappearance f*
“Not a word.”
“My suggestion is that you keep silent until
you have further word from me. It may not
come for a week. You’d better remain by the
body until the coroner arrives.”
Inspector Val scribbled a line on one of his
THE TRACKS IN THE SNOW 141
cards. The card read: “Inspector Val, Central
Office, Mulberry Street.” Underneath was written
“To Coroner: Please postpone finding until
you’ve talked with me.—V.”
“Give the coroner that,” he said to Mr. Berks,
as the latter took the card. “Don’t answer
questions, or say aught of the happenings of last
night.' I like to keep these matters dark; to turn
on a half light might defeat our search.”
Mr. Berks closed his lips firmly, as one who
has decided to remain mute in the face of every
query. &
Mr. Sorg met his chief more than once during
the next seven days, but was too well trained to be
guilty of the grievous error of putting questions.
By suggestion of Inspector Val, the coroner had
had one hearing, and taken the testimony of the
rustical Mr. Stearns. It was a tremendous mo–
ment for that bumpkin, albeit all he could say was
that, while in quest of the errant “Bossy,” he
came across the body. He volunteered a belief
that death was caused by the night express. Also,
he identified the remains as Settle's by the clothes,
and, in support of his express train theory, remem-
bered how Settle was dull of ear.
“He was as deaf as an adder of scripture, your
honor,” said Mr. Stearns, with a bow to the coroner.
That functionary, following the evidence of
142 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
Mr. Stearns, adjourned the inquiry a fortnight.
It was one week to the hour, after Mr. Berks’
visit to Mulberry Street, when Inspector Val
sent for Mr. Sorg.
“Sorg,” he said, in his official tone, “this after-
noon at sharp two, you will please be at the
Twenty-fifth Street door of the Hoffman. I shall
come out of the hotel by that door, with a gentle-
man. To avoid mistakes, as I pass you I'll
identify him by calling him ‘Mr. Notes.' We
will separate at the door; you are then to shadow
him to his home, wherever it is. It may be that
he lives out of town, so be ready to take a train.
Having followed him to his home, by way of
making sure, wait a half hour to see if he comes
out. At the end of the half hour, rap at the door
and ask whether a Mr. Seton resides there. The
reply in all chance will be in the affirmative.
Thereupon, elaborate a bit and say: ‘Mr. Erasmus
Seton of number two Wall º' The answer to
this must inevitably be ‘No’; for, unless the
City Directory is a work of fiction, Mr. Erasmus
Seton of number two Wall lives at the Nether-
lands. Having gotten your ‘No,' explain that you
were misdirected and return to me.”
Two o'clock found Mr. Sorg at the Twenty-fifth
Street door of the Hoffman. There were several
loitering about, and a more or less coming and
THE TRACKS IN THE SNOW 143
going of cabs, so there was small risk of the broad-
shouldered, commonplace Mr. Sorg, in cap and
peajacket, being identified as a member of the
city's secret police. Making provision for every
possibility that might attend his man's departure,
he ordered a coupe to stand ready across the
Street.
Fifteen minutes, half an hour, three-quarters
went by; still no Inspector Val. The mercury
was above freezing, the streets a-slush with snow;
this made the air damp and raw. Mr. Sorg
planted himself inside the double doors, from
which position he could watch both hotel and
street, and also avoid the weather.
At three o’clock, across the hall from Mr. Sorg
the door of the elevator slammed open and In-
spector Val got out. He was followed by a lean
little rat-faced man, whose sallow cheek and lank
iron-gray locks, hanging down to his shoulders,
were in keeping with the stoop that almost bent
his thin frame double. One claw-like hand
carried the cane wherewith he supported his
shuffling steps, while the other—long, meager,
like the talons of a bird—clutched at a thick
shawl, wrapped closely about the throat. The
shawl, being voluminous, hung down about the
starved flanks, and the coat-tails and trousers,
visible below its fringe, were black and rusty.
144 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
As the pair passed Mr. Sorg, Inspector Val ob-
served:
“Then, Mr. Notes, you are unable to say just
when I shall have the pleasure of seeing your great
device.”
“Sir,” replied the little rat-faced man, “it is
impossible to name a day at this time. However,
you will probably hear from me. Meanwhile,”
and the little rat-faced man bowed and smirked
in an amazing fashion, “I am under a world of
obligations for this meeting. If you should return
to London, Professor, before we meet again,
write me to the care of the St. Denis, as you did
to-day, and tell me what advancement you are
making.”
“Believe me,” returned Inspector Val, as he
pressed the bird-claw hand, “I shall surely see
you before I see London.”
“But if you don’t "
“Then I shall write.”
Mr. Sorg's coupe precautions were well taken,
for the little rat-faced man signalled a hansom.
Inspector Val helped him in, which did not please
him. He hesitated, and then, since he must,
gave the direction.
“Drive to the Twenty-third Street ferry, North
River.”
Away rattled the little rat-faced man; after him,
&
THE TRACKS IN THE SNOW 145
not one hundred feet behind, rattled Mr. Sorg.
Inspector Val saw them fairly off; then lighting
a cigar he turned and strolled down Broadway.
At eight o'clock in the evening, Inspector Val
sauntered into his rooms in Mulberry Street.
“Any word from Sorg f" he asked.
The officer on the night desk said Mr.
Sorg had 'phoned that he would be in at ten
o'clock.
“It’s as I thought,” mused Inspector Val,
divesting himself of his street coat, “my weasel-
visaged friend's home isn’t far away.”
At ten o’clock Mr. Sorg appeared; from the
splashes of mud on his person, it was clear that he
had been doing a mile or so of country road afoot.
“Well ?” said Inspector Val, composing himself
comfortably on the lounge.
“You heard your party say ‘Twenty-third
Street ferry f" began Mr. Sorg, pulling up a chair.
“That was a blind. At Eighth Avenue he ordered
his hansom about, and went to Sherry's. There
he dismissed it, and after a wait of five minutes
took a Sherry electric cab to the Majestic. Paying
off the electric he shuffled his way to the Elevated
station, Ninth Avenue and Seventy-second Street,
and caught an uptown train. He left the train at
One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street and took
the surface cars for the Fort Lee ferry-house. There
146 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
he crossed the river. A colored lad, driving an
old rockaway buggy, the horse ready to fall dead
with age, was waiting.”
“Ah!” observed Inspector Val, lighting a cigar,
“I begin to see how you collected those splashes
of mud.”
“You begin to see that I was in for a rough
time on the muddy Jersey roads. It was growing
dark, and for a moment I was bothered. It
began to look as though l should have to follow
the ramshackle rockaway on foot. Keeping it in
sight would have been no more trouble than
keeping a hearse in sight, but, as you surmise,
those Jersey roads are not inviting. However,
some luck was with me. An express wagon had
just dumped a consignment of packages at the
ferry-house, and I gave the boy who drove it a
dollar to take the same road with the rockaway.
I said nothing about the rockaway particularly,
but spoke of a country brother off in the direction
it was going, whom I was about to surprise with
a visit. The boy knew nothing of the old party in
the rockaway, for I put the question. He was a
dull boy, and since I asked fifty questions, he wasn’t
particularly impressed by the one about the rocka-
way. Your party drove to a cottage three miles
from Fort Lee. He went into the cottage, while
the darky drove round to the barn. From the
THE TRACKS IN THE SNOW 147
way your party let himself in with his own key,
I make no question of his living there.”
“Did he act as though he feared he might be
followed P”
“Not after he reached the Majestic. Up to
that time he had been sticking his head out of
the window and squinting back, at every cross
street.”
“What next P”
“After your party got home, I let my boy drive
on another half mile; I was looking for a house
in which to install my brother. The country
round about Fort Lee is somewhat primeval, and
houses are few and far between. At last I saw
a light across a little hollow,
“‘Who lives there P’ I asked. As usual the
boy doesn’t know. Wonderfully dull boy! ‘Well
then,’ says I, ‘it’s my brother. You can leave
me here, as I don’t want even the rattle of a wagon
wheel to notify him in advance of the joyful sur-
prise that’s in store.”
“With that I got quit of my express boy. When
he was well on his way back to Fort Lee, I returned
to the cottage. The windows had been dark;
now I found them all lit up. There being no
dogs, I scouted the situation, front and rear. It’s
a one-story cottage; counting the kitchen, I don’t
figure more than four rooms. The colored boy
148 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
was in the kitchen cooking supper. I could make
him out through a window. In the same way,
I got a flash at your party busy in a front room
over sheets of paper, stopping occasionally to do
a bit of mathematics on a slate.”
“Ah, I see!” laughed Inspector Val. “He
was measuring up, algebraically, certain rules
I gave him.”
“After I’d sized up the place, I gave the door
a thump with my stick, there being neither bell
nor knocker. The colored boy opened it. As
he did so, a whiff of broiled ham floated forth,
and I had hardest work to keep from inviting
myself in to supper. However, I restrained the
impulse and, as you directed, inquired if Mr.
Seton lived there.
“Yes, sir,’ says the boy.
“‘Mr. Erasmus Seton of number two Wall ”
I asks.
“‘No, sir; not Mr. *Ras'mus but Mr. Dan’l
Seton,’ he says.
“Then I got the wrong steer,’ says I; and
headed for you.”
“There was a barn, you say ?”
“It was more like a low shed.”
“Were the house and shed all There should
have been a third building.”
“Now you mention it, there was. It stood
THE TRACKS IN THE SNOW 149
back in a little valley. I saw it, as I scouted to
the rear of the cottage, before I went to the door.”
“What was it like *
“It was dark, and I didn’t go near it. From
the outlines, as they showed against a snow-
covered slope beyond, it was of fairish height,
with a gable roof. I took it to be another barn.”
Inspector Val looked at his watch; it was
eleven o’clock. He began pulling on his overcoat
for the street.
“Meet me here,” said he, “at four to-morrow
afternoon. A lively team should land us at our
Fort Lee friend's by six. You and I will pay
him a visit.”
II
THE CONDOR CAGE
NSPECTOR VAL had two weaknesses, books
and horses. The latter fad was in evidence
next day when, at the hour set for the meeting
between himself and Mr. Sorg, a pair of slashing
bays driven by a black coachman and draw-
ing a Stanhode came dancing into Mul-
berry street, and halted at the Central Office
door. A moment later, Inspector Val and Mr.
Sorg were bowling along for the Fort Lee ferry.
Crossing Stanhope and all to the Fort Lee side
of the river, under the pilotage of Mr. Sorg they
struck northward on a country road. The day
had been clear, but with enough of frost to dispose
of the vexatious question of mud. Altogether,
the drive, so far from being a hardship, was
pleasant enough. In confirmation of this, Mr.
Sorg was moved to observe:
“This is a decided improvement on yesterday.”
Inspector Val mumbled an assent; plainly his
mind was running on whatever business had
brought him to the wrong side of the Hudson.
It was characteristic of those close yet queer
150
‘THE CONDOR CAGE I51
relations, which subsisted between Inspector Val
and Mr. Sorg, that the former hadn’t spoken a
word which could be tortured into furnishing even
the shadow of an inference as to what was the
purpose of their trip. Nor, on his taciturn part,
had Mr. Sorg put a single interrogatory. Mr.
Sorg had learned many lessons during his rough
and tumble life; most of all, he had learned the
lesson of Inspector Val. That nervously peculiar
gentleman had an angry horror of the congenital
cross-examiner; questions and question-mongers
were his pet aversion. Wherefore, Mr. Sorg was
wont to humor this weakness of his chief; and
the latter, while loving Mr. Sorg for his ironbound
virtues of courage and a lion-like strength, loved
him most for a wordlessness, that spoke never
to interrogate, and only when there was some-
thing to tell.
The cottage the two came seeking was not on
the main road, but down a lane to the left. Mr.
Sorg said that it was distant a quarter of a mile
from the road. On receiving the news, Inspector
Val halted the Stanhope at the mouth of the lane,
and there the two left it with word that it follow
in twenty minutes and wait in front of the cottage,
the far-twinkling lights of which Mr. Sorg pointed
out. The pair would do the short balance of
their journey on foot.
152 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
The cottage was that small one-story structure
which Mr. Sorg had described. The new moon
sent down enough light, from a sky without a
cloud, to show it half-ruinous and unpainted.
Before going to the cottage, Inspector Val
scrutinized the region round about.
“Is that the third building you spoke of f*
he asked Mr. Sorg, pointing where the ridgepole
showed dimly above a knoll.
“Yes. It stands in the hollow beyond that
swell.”
Inspector Val leaped the fence, Mr. Sorg follow-
ing more heavily. A walk of forty rods across a
pasture, brought them to the crest of the knoll; the
building that interested them lay immediately at
its foot. Like the cottage, it was unpainted; and,
while of more recent construction, had the same
gray, storm-beaten, weather-stained appearance.
Inspector Val descended the slope for a closer
study. The building possessed a decidedly queer
appearance, and was over-long for its width, being
about fifteen feet by forty. The height, too, was
considerable, measuring full thirty feet to the
eaves. In the center, the sharp gable made it
eight feet more. Strangest of all, there wasn’t
sign of door or window. Inspector Val, upon
a closer examination, called Mr. Sorg's eye to the
fact that one entire end of the building was made
STHE CONDOR CAGE I53
up of the two leaves of a great double door. When
they were thrown open, it was as though that end
had been taken out. These doors were held fast
against present investigation, by double padlocks.
All this could be observed in the pale partial light
of the young moon. That, however, was the limit
of observation; for, while there were cracks of
width and merit, between the up-and-down barn-
boards which constituted the walls, it was far too
dark to talk of seeing what might be housed
therein.
After holding his ineffectual eye to the crack
for a whole minute, Mr. Sorg gave it up. He
appealed to Inspector Val, with a gesture of im-
patience.
“What do you say, Chief ? Shall I get a rail
from yonder fence, and knock a board off f*
“Why should you knock a board off f*
“To see what’s inside P’’
“I know what’s inside; I knew before we left
Mulberry street.” Then, as though unable to
longer withstand Mr. Sorg's eyes: “This is the
cage of your condor of the Andes.”
Mr. Sorg looked wistfully but with puzzled
face at the building. Inspector Val touched him
on the shoulder, and pointed towards the cot-
tage.
“Let us have a talk with the owner, I’ve no
154 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
doubt he’ll satisfy your curiosity touching that
largest bird of prey in the world. I think I can
promise you a glimpse of it.”
It was a half minute's walk. As they approached
they made out, through the window, the little
rat-faced man, busy over a draughting table.
The room in which he worked was brilliantly
lighted, and they could see him plainly.
“That's the way he was last night,” said Mr.
Sorg.
Mr. Sorg's rap brought the colored lad to the
door. The moment the door was opened, In-
spector Val stepped inside; being inside, he ad-
dressed the surprised darky.
“Say to Mr. Seton that Professor Reed desires
to speak with him.”
The room in which the rat-faced little man was
busy with compass, tri-square, and draughting
pen opened off the hall, where Inspector Val and
Mr. Sorg stood waiting.
“Professor Reed!” they heard him exclaim, in
his harsh crackling tones. There was a note of
surprise and annoyance, almost of alarm. After
a pause, as though mentally considering ‘Professor
Reed,” he came into the hall.
“There are two of you!” he cried, startled by
the sight of Mr. Sorg.
“Permit me, Mr. Seton,” said Inspector Val,
THE CONDOR CAGE I 55
blandly, “to present Mr. Sorg of the New York
Central Office.”
The little rat-faced man stared at Mr. Serg,
saying never a word, but with less of fear than
wonder in his manner.
“This is remarkable!” he rasped out at last.
And then, as though a sudden thought had struck
him, he shifted his beady eyes to Inspector Val:
“How did you know my name *
“You may guess, when I advise you never to
attempt an alias, by merely spelling your own name
backward. Besides being vulgar, as the most
commonplace trick of criminals of inferior stamp,
it fails of the concealment aimed at nine times in
” The little rat-faced man stood open-
mouthed before Inspector Val. The latter went
on: “Come, Mr. Seton; do yourself credit, and
invite Mr. Sorg and myself into your study.”
The little rat-faced man held his ground, darting
glances of suspicion.
“You spoke of my alias of ‘Notes,’ said he.
“Now on my part I don’t think you are Professor
Reed.”
“Quite right, too!” responded Inspector Val,
affably. “Like Mr. Sorg, I’m of the detective
police. You may call me Inspector Val. May
I now renew my hint about your study ?”
“Then you aren't an aeronaut f°
ten.
12,
156 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
The little rat-faced man got this off as though
the thought gave him decided relief.
“Let me assure you, Mr. Seton, that I shall
never soar higher than I can be carried on the
wings of stones and mortar.”
“And you’ve not come to spy upon my ideas —
steal my inventions fº
“Such a larceny is as much beyond our pur-
pose, as it would be impossible to our moral
natures.”
The little rat-faced man glanced brightly and
quickly, with his gimlet eyes, from Inspector Val
to Mr. Sorg, and back to Inspector Val. His
survey seemed to reassure him; he led the way
without more parley into the room where he had
been at work.
It was a large pleasant room; a wood fire
snapped and crackled in the fireplace. There
were a rough pine table, such as architects use,
and three or four heavy chairs. In a corner stood
the model of an electric engine, the whole culmi-
nating in a great four-winged fan, of the sort em-
ployed for cooling rooms, only larger. On the
walls hung a dozen drawings of balloons and
airships, from the globular variety to the long
cigar-shaped contrivance.
Mr. Sorg took in these features with a single
keen sweep of his eyes, and then established him-
“May I light a cigar?” Inspector Val asked sweetly.

THE CONDOR CAGE I57
self near the door; it being instinctive with Mr.
Sorg, whatever the occasion, to cut off every-
body's retreat. Inspector Val, with an easier
grace, drew a chair towards the open fire.
“May I light a cigar P’’ he asked.
It was surprising how in a moment that bent and
shuffling little rat-faced man had thawed. He
beamed as he answered:
“Most certainly, sir! I beg you will make
yourself at home. And let me defend my hospi-
tality by having in a bottle of wine.”
The little rat-faced man beat the floor smartly
with his cane. In response to this unusual signal,
the darky boy appeared bearing a bottle of bur-
gundy as carefully as though it were a child asleep.
The little rat-faced man poured three glasses.
The jealous Mr. Sorg held his untouched, until
he had seen the host drink his own personal
glassful to the final drop. Then Mr. Sorg drank
his, and smacked his lips. Inspector Val, more
confident or more polite, kept the host company
in his drinking.
“And now,” said the latter, “tell me why, when
you are no aeronaut, you masqueraded as the great
Professor Reed, and trolled me into meeting you ?”
“You misstate the case, Mr. Seton; you trolled
yourself. However, let me tell you what brings
us to your house.”
158 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
“I shall be pleased to hear, sir.”
“I will premise by saying that Mr. Sorg and
myself possess no official powers in your State,
That is of small consequence, however, since our
purpose is not to make an arrest, but an investi-
gation. Yesterday, when we talked, you covered
up one truth; you’ve gone much further in per-
fecting your airship than you admitted.”
“I was afraid you might take advantage of my
discoveries!” protested the little man, apolo-
getically. “Now when I understand that you
are not professionals, and know nothing and
probably care nothing about aeronautics, it is
a different matter.”
“It is unimportant; the point is this. Tuesday
night, a week ago, you had out your airship,
and made an excursion as far eastward at least
as Fordham Heights.”
“You are right. The experiments of that even-
ing, for first experiments, were extremely successful;
although I cannot imagine how you managed to
observe them, for the night was quite dark.”
“Let me ask a question.”
The little man glanced up expectantly; he was
refilling Inspector Val’s glass, his talon of a
hand as steady as a tree.
“Did you know that you killed a man that
night on Fordham Heights *
THE CONDOR CAGE I59
“Killed a man * The dry terror of the thought
reduced the rasping cackle to a husky croak."
The rat-like eyes filled up with a slow horror.
“Then it was a man my grappling-iron caught f"
The little man sank to the floor as though
stricken; Inspector Val lifted him, and placed
him in his chair. The bottle of burgundy fell
and broke on the stone hearth, the purple wine
running about in the ashes.
After a moment, the little man was able
to partially command himself. Brushing back
the lank, iron-gray locks, he looked vacantly at
Inspector Val. Then his eyes dropped, and
he began to shiver.
“To think that I’ve caused a fellow creature’s
death!” he whispered.
Inspector Val attempted the part of comforter.
“It was a sad accident; but, when all is said, only
an accident.”
“This will end it! I shall do no more!”
Inspector Val let the little man wander
on without interruption. Presently, when the
latter's composure had somewhat returned, he
re-commenced, gently.
‘Why not tell what happened f"
“I will do my best,” returned the little man,
making an effort. “Of course, in a general
way, you understand about balloons. The two
I6O CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
big questions with the aeronautic world are how
to control a balloon so as to travel at will to any
given place, in the teeth of winds if need be.
Next, having arrived at your destination, how
to manage a safe descent. I think I have solved
those questions. Certainly I can control my
machine, taking it whither I will at times when
the wind does not exceed eight miles an hour—
a fair breeze! My theory was perfect, my machine
complete, and on that fatal night, it being both
dark and still, I resolved upon a thorough test.
I was in the air two hours, and my device for con-
trolling the airship worked admirably; I could
drive it where I would.”
“And this,” interrupted Inspector Val, pointing
to the model of the electric machine, “is the engine
you control it with ?”
“It is the device itself,” said the little man,
his sallow cheek reddening with re-vivified
interest. He crossed over: “See,” said he, in-
dicating the big four-flanged fan. “The engine
will drive this contrivance twenty thousand revo-
lutions a minute. You know something of air-
pressures, and the force of winds. I could give
you the formula; but it is enough, since you are
not scientific, to say that this device, driven to
top power, will exert a force of four hundred
pounds. Also, you will observe that the fan, or
THE CONDOR CAGE I6I
propeller arrangement, works on a ball and socket
joint. I can turn it up or down or horizontal;
in brief it can be used to lift or lower the airship,
as well as drive it on its way.
“I think I understand,” said Inspector Val,
assuming a sympathetic interest. “Now to return
to your experimental trip.”
The cheek of the little man whitened anew, while
his eyes resumed their troubled look of sorrow.
“I would give all I possess if I’d never made it!”
he said. “However, let me come at once to the
worst. I had been east as far as the Sound,
and was on my return. As I floated over the
intervening tongue of land between the Sound
and the Harlem River, the shafting that drives the
propeller began to get hot; a collar was too tight.
I was no more than one hundred feet above the
ground, and, as I didn’t know the extent of the
trouble, I deemed it best to descend. Having
halted the airship, I could loosen the collar with
a twist of the wrench. I have a half-inch drag-
rope, with a grappling-hook at the end. The
rope passes through the bottom of the car, and
can be lowered or hauled in at will. When fully
out, it is eighty feet long. I had all but stopped
the driving gear, and was floating westward by
the mere motion of the air. I saw a big house, and
beyond it, at quite a distance, stood a clumpy
I62 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
tree, with a free space all about. I hoped to pass
over the tree, and entangle my grappling-hook
in its branches; this would bring my airship to a
halt. I could then lower it to the ground with
safety.”
“Some such notion crossed my mind,” inter-
jected Inspector Val, “the moment I set eyes on
that dogwood.”
“I could see the tree quite plainly,” resumed
the little man, “because of the snow. I had
let down my drag-rope, full length, and was
expecting with each moment to feel it comb
the tree, when of a sudden there came a mighty
tug, tilting the airship; and then I heard a scream.
I had noticed nothing below but the tree;
the tug at the drag-rope, and the awful cry,
startled me horribly. In my agitation I did two
things, both wrong. I started the propeller full-
head, at the same time emptying out my sand-
ballast. The balloon, while still keeping up its
slow drift westward, rose rapidly; for, aside from
throwing overboard the ballast, the propeller's
shaft had been raised to a perpendicular, and in
that position, going full head, it exerted as I’ve
told you a lifting force of four hundred pounds.”
“You knew, of course,” broke in Inspector
Val, “that some live creature was being carried
aloft on your grappling-hook?”
THE CONDOR CAGE 163
“By no means! My thought was that the crea-
ture had freed itself. To be candid, while my
ideas were by no means clear, I took it, from the
cry as well as the surroundings, to be a sheep.
After that first scream, what with the whirr and
flutter of the fan, I could hear nothing. I didn’t
touch the drag-rope until I was fairly over the
Harlem; it was free then. And you say,” ob-
served the little man, a catch in his throat like
a Sob—“you say it was a man *
“You carried him two hundred yards into the
air, before the grappling-hook released him through
the tearing of his coat. His body, crushed to a
pulp by the fall, was found near the railway
track.”
The little man squeezed his claw-like hands
between his knees, while his face worked with
regret and grief.
“I shall make amends to his family,” he said.
“As much as one may with money, I shall make
amends, though it take the last dollar of my
fortune.”
“He was wholly without family. But, tell me!
Why didn't you return, after you got control of
yourself and your airship f"
“I was prodigiously shaken; so much so that
I wholly forgot the tight collar and the hot shaft.
I only thought of getting home. I made the
164 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
journey without mishap; it is no more than three
miles, as the crows fly, from here to Fordham
Heights.”
“But you must surely have thought of that poor
creature, torn by your grappling-hook?”
“Think of it! Yes; but I made no doubt that
it was a sheep. I could do no good by returning;
and I feared to expose my invention. It was
to hide what I’ve been doing, until my designs
were perfect, that I came to this out-of-the-way
place. I was afraid, if I went back, that it would
result in a newspaper story before I was ready for
it. You may be sure that, had I realized the truth,
I should have returned to either repair the wrong
or bear the blame.”
“Let me see your airship,” said Inspector Val,
getting to his feet. “I know where it is; I have
already reconnoitered that narrow building in the
hollow.”
“You may see it, and welcome! The more,
since you are likely to be the last, besides myself,
to look upon it.”
The little man was utterly depressed, and his
shoulders had taken on an added droop. He
lit a lantern, and led the way to that slim, tall
structure in the hollow. Once there, he unlocked
and threw open those wide end doors.
The balloon proper, a long, cigar-shaped con-
THE CONDOR CAGE 165
trivance of oiled silk, wholly filled the upper part
of the narrow building. The little man showed
his gas-making arrangements, and explained that
he had inflated it just before Inspector Val and
Mr. Sorg arrived, having planned another experi-
mental trip for that very night.
“It is so clear a night,” said he, “that I intended
to defer starting until about two in the morning.
I thought I would only circle about the country-
side; I wanted to avoid notice for another month
or two.”
Inspector Val examined the car. It was wicker
work, and the material used in the weaving had
been first sheathed in rubber.
“The car contrivance is aluminum,” explained
the little man; the idea was to combine
lightness with strength. Car, engine, drag-rope,
ballast, with myself aboard, weigh under four
hundred pounds; fully charged, the lifting power
of the balloon itself is almost five hundred.
This is aside from what help can instantly be
given it by raising the fan-shaft to perpendicu-
lar.” The little man gazed steadily and sadly
at his darling device for sailing the sky. “It has
been friend and family to me! More, it was my
religion—my god! I have sacrificed to it thous-
ands of money, years of thought! And now the
end l’’
I66 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
The little man covered his face with his thin
hands. It was thus that Inspector Val and Mr.
Sorg left him, when they came away.
The bays stood waiting, full of impatience; in
a moment they were whirling away for Fort Lee.
“That was a silken piece of work!” observed
Mr. Sorg.
“Simplicity itself!” For all the complacent
modesty of the utterance, Mr. Sorg could tell that
Inspector Val was pleased with himself. “All it
required was a little thought. To begin with, I
was obliged to decline Berks’ theory of a fiend.
Neither could I see my way clear to adopt your
ingenious suggestion of a condor. Assuming that
Settle had been carried off, manner and form as
Mr. Berks related, there was but one solution:
it was done by a balloon; there could be nothing
else within the rim of the sane and possible. Mr.
Berks’ ‘fluttering of mighty wings' aided the
thought. Also I considered the character of the
night—quiet and dark; and even took in the dog-
wood tree. Some airship, drifting low, or about
to descend—the open space was an argument for
the latter—had caught Settle with its steel three-
pronged grappling-hook. Thus I argued, while
looking at the tracks in the snow; when I saw his
body, and found the long deep gash in back and
shoulder, I regarded it as sure.”
122
THE CONDOR CAGE 167
“And naturally,” interjected Mr. Sorg, in an
ecstasy of admiration, “the next move was to
locate the air-sailor.”
“That was indubitably the next step. There
had been no late newspaper talk of any local air-
ship, and I came to the conclusion that some am-
bitious aeronaut must have built himself a machine,
and was experimenting in secret. Being secret,
he had waited until after dark before beginning
his voyage that night. Settle was swooped on
at ten o’clock; the airship could not have been up
four hours. With so little breeze stirring, and
afloat so short a time, that airship must have been,
when it killed Settle, within twelve miles from
the place of starting. The chances were that the
distance was even less. There then was my
problem: To discover an aeronaut who was, so
to call it, in hiding within a radius of a dozen miles
from Fordham Heights. A look at the map will
show how that description embraces quite a bit
of country.”
“One may say sol”
“There were a score of methods, any of which
should have found my man; but most of them
meant time, and it was the short cut I was after.
You know what inventors are —intense, eager,
swallowed up by their project. Figuring on my
hidden aeronaut as being such another individual
I68 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
as this Mr. Seton, I caused a local item to be
printed in the “American.” The great aeronaut
of Europe is the English scientist, Professor Reed,
and for the purpose of my notice I stole that sky-
traveler's name. The item ran after this sort:
Professor Reed, the celebrated Aeronaut, is quartered at
the Hoffman. He comes from Berlin, where he has been in
conference with the German Emperor—a potentate who is
profoundly taken up with air navigation. While France is
interesting herself in submarines, the Kaiser means to perfect
the airship. It is understood that Professor Reed has agreed
to design an airship for the Germans that shall be as much
under control in the air as is a ship in the water.
“The idea was,” continued Inspector Val,
“that my fellow aeronaut would see this, and I
reckoned on a call from him. Birds of a feather,
Sorg! Besides he would come, not on Professor
Reed’s account, but his own, and on the chance of
picking up a hint that should help along his device.
Nor was I wrong. I got a letter at the Hoffman,
proposing an interview. This was signed ‘Mr.
Notes,’ and asked me to address my correspondent
at the St. Denis.”
“‘Notes,’” broke in Mr. Sorg, contemptuously.
“That was deep!”
“Deep, indeed! However, I sent a letter to
‘Mr. Notes’ at the St. Denis, and made the ap-
pointment of yesterday. Our friend came sharp
to the minute, and we had a most interesting half
hour, with what result you’ve seen.”
THE CONDOR CAGE I69
“But why did he change his name * Why did
he skulk and glance back to see if he were followed
Doesn’t it look as though he knew he'd killed
some one f"
“That was my first thought; I now believe his
explanation. He couldn’t have acted that part
to-night; he’s too innocent, too guileless. No,
we were the first to let him hear of the blood he’d
shed. As for his alias, and his skulking—in-
ventors are egotists to the point of insanity. This
Seton, I warrant you, thinks himself and his air-
ship the two most important things in the world,
and was afraid—as he himself said—that his fellow
scientist might not be above privily following him,
with a larcenous purpose of poaching.”
“There will be no arrest ?”
“There has been no crime. Certainly the
facts would hardly justify a requisition on the
Governor at Trenton; to say nothing of dragging
into court that poor old man, whose troubles are
like to kill him as it is. It means the end of his
beloved airship. You remember what he said:
‘It is the end’l”
“And it is the end!” cried Mr. Sorg, suddenly,
pulling at the elbow of Inspector Val. “Look
there!”
They had wheeled into the main road, and were
bowling along a good mile or more from the old
170 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
cottage. Inspector Val cast his eyes to the right
and the rear, in the direction indicated by Mr.
Sorg. The heavens were painted a bright gold;
now and then a serpent tongue of flame licked
upward towards the stars.
“Back!” cried Inspector Val.
The disgusted bays came round at a trot, and
were again headed for the cottage. Before half
the distance had been covered, the bright orange
light began to fail and fade, and, when they
reached the cottage, the airship and the tinder-
like structure that had sheltered it were mere
glowing coals and embers. Mr. Seton they found
in the room where they first saw him, gazing into
the log fire with sadly brooding eyes. The stricken
old man—leaden of eye, cheek of chalk—looked
up as Inspector Val came in with Mr. Sorg.
He evinced no surprise at their return.
“It was I,” he said, as though answering a
question—“it was I who did it. I put the torch
to it myself.”
THE MURDER AT THE SANTA
MARIE
I
MADAM LAURIE
T was break of day—a clear April morning.
I The streets were quiet and deserted; for it
was precisely the hour when night-prowlers,
runagate folk, and other loose livers who fear the
light are going into hiding, while your decent
working citizen has not yet turned out. A police-
man was slowly sauntering along the Bowery,
near its junction with Grand Street. Arriving at
the corner of the two thoroughfares, the police-
man glanced at his watch; a look of satisfaction
over-swept his heavy face, as he considered that
his post would be relieved in twenty minutes.
As the policeman replaced the watch, the clatter
of heavy feet caught his ear. He wheeled; a
man, evidently in mighty agitation, was running
towards him along Grand Street. As the man
drew near, he gesticulated and waved his arms in
a clumsy, beckoning manner.
“What's the trouble P’’ demanded the officer.
The running man came up, but was too much
excited and out of breath to instantly reply. He
was a thick, phlegmatic fellow with a moonlike
173
174 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
face. Commonly full and ruddy, his cheeks were
now the color of tallow. For a moment he stood
gasping and gurgling, trying to regain control of
himself.
The officer again demanded: “What's the
trouble P”
“Murder!” cried the moon-faced man at last,
voice between a choke and a sob. “Madam
Laurie!—at the Santa Marie!”
The Santa Marie was a small wine shop in
Grand Street, not an arrow-shot from the Bow-
ery. How it got its name no one might tell.
Neither the exterior nor the interior bore sign or
token that suggested it. For all that the place
was known as the Santa Marie, and the oldest
memory, for a round mile about, ran not to the
contrary.
The Santa Marie had been kept by Madam
Laurie for thirty years. She did not launch the
business; both name and trade were flourishing
before her time. The Santa Marie was originally
the property of one Jacob Darm, to whom Madam
Laurie paid one thousand dollars in gold as its
price. The week before this transaction, she had
bought the building and the ground whereon it
stood. This purchase had made Herr Darm her
tenant. Instantly Herr Darm and Madam Lau-
rie differed over rent; thereupon, loving peace,
MADAM LAURIE I75
she decided to buy him out and go into the wine
trade for herself.
The building, when Madam Laurie purchased
it, had stood for more than a century. It was an
old-fashioned brick structure, eaves to the street.
The gray shingled roof was broken by two dormer
windows, which afforded light to an attic chamber.
In its youth the house had been the dwelling
of some well-to-do old Knickerbocker; but that
day was far astern, since everybody that belonged
to the town's fashion had, for more than eighty
years, abandoned both the Bowery and Grand
Street.
Aside from an attic chamber, the house pos-
sessed two floors and a basement There was no
getting into the basement fro Grand Street;
from the rear, one might enter by a wide down-
ward flight of steps. The basement was closed
against the casual intruder, should such find his
way to the small boxed-in rear yard, by a door—
thick enough, truly—but age-eaten and shaky. A
strong resolute shoulder could have sent it in.
From this basement a narrow stairway led to
the floor above. The basement itself was dark
and musty, its only ventilation—what little there
was—coming from two small ground-windows,
set in the foundations of the house. It was used
by Madam Laurie as a cellar for wine, and bins
176 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
of bottles were arranged around the two sides and
front.
The floor above, being the first floor, and
entered directly from Grand Street, was Madam
Laurie's wine shop proper. There were three
rooms on this floor; the front room being a gen-
eral room, and furnished with a half dozen tables,
with their complement of chairs. It was at these
tables the guests, for the most, did their drinking.
To the rear of this, and opening into it, were
two small rooms, windows overlooking the rear
yard, where guests—who for purposes of confi-
dence and privacy wished to be alone—might sit.
There was a slight addition to the charge for wine
served in these rear rooms; Madam Laurie,
being thrifty, never overlooked an excuse for win-
ning an honest copper.
From the small rear room on the left side of the
building, a narrow stairway, corresponding—
width and length—to the stairway that led up
from the basement, carried one to the second
floor. On this second floor, Madam Laurie
lived—the floor being divided into sitting-room,
bedroom, and kitchen, the two latter of the size
commonly described as “big enough to swing a
cat in.” No one, so far as history tells, was
ever known to swing a cat under any circum-
stances; yet the phrase is supposed to have an
MADAM LAURIE 177
architectural value as indicating dimensions some-
what cramped. -
The furniture throughout, in the public as well
as the private parts of the Santa Marie, was plain
and simple. Cheap ornaments in bisque and plaster
stood about on the mantels. In the large public
front room there was nothing like a bar, the wine
being served from an ancient sideboard that had
come down the rungs of the years from that old
Knickerbocker who was the Santa Marie's first
occupant, half a century or more before it was the
Santa Marie. In all the windows, front as well
as rear, were flower boxes; but these showed now
in April only a brown bristle of last year's stalks
and stumps.
Madam Laurie herself should have a word or
two of personal description. She was a spinster,
sixty odd years old. That is to say, she had con-
sented to forty for over twenty years, always with
an arch simper that showed her still a prey to cer-
tain girlish vanities, which—extant in every
feminine breast at birth—are not to be cancelled
by anything save wedding bells or death.
Being sixty odd, Madam Laurie looked her
years. She was in figure short and stout; her
shoulders stooped; her seamed face was a network
of wrinkles. Even in girlhood, Madam Laurie
must have been notably ugly; for her features
178 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
were coarse, and her large nose, arched Hebrai-
cally, was of the sort termed hooked.
In spite of the coarse heaviness of her face,
the expression of Madam Laurie was quick and
vivacious, and her eyes gleamed and glanced as
bright as any bird's. In origin she was French,
having been born in Paris; and in money mat-
ters she was gifted of a French closeness of grip
that trenched upon the parsimonious. She was
supposed to be rich, too; but, being prudent,
and withal the soul of business, it had never
been imagined that her gold was anywhere
save in a bank. Madam Laurie was no one
to invite thieves by keeping her hoards in the
house.
The policeman, at the word “Murder,” started
off for the Santa Marie at a dull trot. He was guided
by the moon-faced man, who, in his unusual excite-
ment, fairly tugged at the officer's blue sleeve by
way of improving the pace. Arriving at the
Santa Marie, the single front door, raised above
the sidewalk by the height of a trio of steps, was
found to be on the swing. The policeman pointed
to the open door. -
“I did that,” panted the moon-faced man.
“I had just unlocked the door, to open the place
for the day, when I saw the body on the floor.
Then I ran for you.”
5
MADAM LAURIE 179
“What's your name * asked the officer, laying
his hand on the door to throw it wide.
“Peter Salt. They call me ‘Saltpeter.' I
assisted Madam Laurie about her shop.”
The large public room which the officer entered,
was not overfed with light, the two front windows
being narrow. Moreover, they were heavily
curtained, and this aided in bringing about a par-
tial darkness, even when the sun shone most
brightly outside. As the officer entered he seized
Peter Salt by the arm; not for support, but from
a professional instinct of detention. The sus.
picions of the bluecoat, he not being an annalist,
were readily made to stand up; wherefore he
would be sure of Peter Salt, until affairs cleared
themselves a trifle.
Peter Salt seemed not to notice the official
grasp on his arm; and, while he hung back as
they entered the Santa Marie, even the officer
attributed this to nothing beyond a simple-minded
reluctance to look upon repulsive sights. Leading
him by the arm, the officer stepped into the Santa
Marie. In the shadow, to the rear, and just at
the entrance of the small drinking-room, from
which the stairway led down from the floor above,
lay a dark heap, tumbled and careless.
“That's Madam Laurie,” whimpered Peter
Salt, face aghast and pointing with shaking finger.
18o CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
“That's her body!—she’s dead, you know.”
Before the officer could reply, or approach the
tumbled heap, a light step was heard. The officer
started, for death before his eyes had made him
nervous. The origin of that cat-like tread was
at once unmasked; Inspector Val stood in the
doorway. At sight of him, the officer's face,
which had been somewhat doubt-clouded, bright-
ened visibly.
“Ah, Inspector!” he cried, “I was never more
glad! There are mystery and murder here.”
Inspector Val had been ransacking the opium
dives in Pell Street, for a missing bank cashier,
whose funds were known to be short, and whose
slavery to opium was suspected. He had picked
up his man, senses saturated with the drug; and,
since the latter, for the nonce, was beyond con-
versation—locked as tightly in the influence of
opium as ever was fly in amber—had sent him to
Bellevue in charge of Mr. Sorg. The latter had
orders to keep his cashier guarded, until sufficient-
ly recovered from his poppy-sleep to answer ques-
tions.
The drug-soaked one disposed of, Inspector
Val was now walking to his rooms in Lafayette
Place, making all he could of the fresh, crisp,
April air, with the thought of cleansing his lungs
of those suffocating opium odors, with which his
MADAM LAURIE 181
hours in the dens had clogged them. The open
door of the Santa Marie had caught his eye, as he
swung off the Bowery into Grand Street.
Inspector Val made no reply to the blue-coat’s
greeting. Without a word he crossed in front of
the officer and Peter Salt, and bent over the
tumbled heap. It was Madam Laurie, sure
enough—dead, as had been declared by moon-
faced Peter. That latter heavy person, now the
weight of his discovery had been lifted from his
to the shoulders of others, began to lament, and
stood blubbering in the grasp of the officer.
Inspector Val examined the body of Madam
Laurie at some length. There was a strong smell
of coal-oil in the air. A bit of broken glass
crunched beneath his feet. That explained the
kerosene smell; Madam Laurie had had a lamp
in her hand when she fell, and it had been broken
upon the floor.
The body was lying on its face. Death had
come like a bolt from above; for there was no dis-
order, the body lying riot stiffly but easily, and in
an attitude of sleep rather than of death. Blood
in no great quantity had oozed from the mouth.
Inspector Val lifted the right arm; it was poker-
ish and rigid. Madam Laurie had been dead
for hours.
After a protracted study of the body, and a
182 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
mental registration of every detail, Inspector Val
turned to the officer, still silently waiting in the
middle of the room. He had released the arm of
Peter Salt, who, seated at one of the tables was
sobbing thickly, his head on his arms. Inspector
Val made a sign, and the officer straightened up
the recumbent Peter Salt. Being questioned,
that moon-faced person controlled his grief, and,
with some German stubbornness of accent, told
his story.
Madam Laurie, he said, was his maternal aunt,
he, however, coming not from Paris, but Alsace.
He was forty years old, and had been in New York
four years, having been sent for by Madam Laurie
to assist in her wine selling. Yes, he was married,
and had a wife and two children; he lived in Riving-
ton Street. Why had he not lived at the Santa Ma-
rie There wasn’t room; besides, Madam Laurie
didn’t like Cora—Cora being his wife. His duties
were to come each morning to the Santa Marie
and remain until midnight. A long watch Yes;
but sometimes, in the slack hours of the afternoon,
he took a nap on the lounge in Madam Laurie's
sitting-room upstairs. His meals he got with
Madam Laurie. The heft of serving the wine
fell upon him, since in the morning Madam Lau-
rie must do up her house, having no servant. But
in the morning there was little or no call for wine;
MADAM LAURIE 183
it was in the evening that the tables were full and
trade sharp. The evenings found work for both
himself and Madam Laurie. Who were her cus-
tomers ? Staid old French people, commonly—
men who came with their wives, and lived in the
region just south of Washington Square, where
the French colony was considerable.
“What hour last night did you last see Madam
Laurie ' queried Inspector Val.
Peter Salt had last seen her at 11:30 o'clock
when, business being light, with few customers,
she went upstairs to her room on the second floor.
He, himself, closed up the Santa Marie, and left
for home about 12:15 o'clock.
“Was Madam Laurie of considerable fortune 2
—was your aunt rich **
Perer Salt couldn't say; he could only guess.
He thought that his aunt was worth eighty thou-
sand, perhaps one hundred thousand dollars.
There was no telling; she was a close-mouthed
woman, and never mentioned her money.
“But,” added Peter Salt, his moon-like counte-
nance taking on a sudden glow as though the
thought had for the first time come to him, “I
shall soon know. Soon I shall count her money
for myself. She made a will before I came from
the old country, and gave it all to me. Yes, Herr
officers, I am—what you say ?—her heir.”
184 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
At this inspiring news the policeman again
seized Peter Salt by the arm. Inspector Val did
not seem so much impressed. Peter Salt, him-
self, having gotten upon the subject of Madam
Laurie's thousands, and remembering how they
must now by her death become his thousands,
beamed like the sun. His tears ceased to flow;
he even smiled. Wrapped in thoughts of his own
abrupt translation from poverty to riches, he
appeared to forget—being human to excess—
the dumb, dead, crumpled heap in the shadows
by the door. Dull, of course; but still surpris-
ingly like his fellows, was moon-faced Peter Salt.
“You may go,” said Inspector Val to the police-
man. “It’s about your hour off post. I’ll take
charge here.”
The officer glanced with gimlet eye at Peter
Salt. Then he beckoned Inspector Val. Draw-
ing that great investigator towards the front door,
where, while out of ear-shot of Peter Salt, he still
had that legatee covered, and any attempt at
flight on his part checkmated, he whispered:
“How about that party f" pointing to Peter
Salt.
“You don’t think he murdered his aunt P’’
“Folks do murder their aunts—sometimes.
Besides, he makes a fortune by her death. And
see how chirpy he is! I'm blessed if he won’t
MADAM LAURIE 185
take to whistling in a minute, he feels so con-
foundedly good over it!”
“True!” responded Inspector Val, “he does
seem a bit buoyant, for one who has lost a near
and, we may assume, a valued relative. None
the less, there's hardly sufficient evidence to put
him behind the bars.” Then, noting uncer-
tainty and disappointment; “I’ll tell you a better
thing. Let him go free, as though you had not
the least suspicion; then shadow him. He may
lead you to the proof you require.”
The policeman was deeply satisfied, and showed
it in his face.
“It is ever wise,” ruminated Inspector Val,
“to give a zealous thickskull something that will
occupy his faculties and time. Otherwise he may
get between the legs of your own intelligent inves-
tigations, and throw them down. Yes; I’ll have
this energetic dullard follow Peter Salt. It’ll do
no harm, and at the same time take him out from
under my feet.”
Inspector Val winked impressively at the police-
man, as though to intimate confidence and fullest
understanding between them.
“You’ll have to get my Captain to give me the
detail,” whispered the policeman.
“Fear not! You'll be in plain clothes to-mor-
row, with nothing to do but follow our friend over
I86 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
there.” Peter Salt, with his unconscious back
towards them, and wrapped in golden dreams,
heard nothing and guessed less of their talk. “I’ll
give him his dismissal.” Addressing the dream-
wrapped Peter, he said: “You may go back to
your wife and babies. Give me your key to the
front door.”
Peter Salt looked up like one awakened from
a trance. Then he glanced dubiously at the
tumbled dead heap on the floor.
“The authorities will take charge of that,”
replied Inspector Val, interpreting the look.
“Where do you live * demanded the police-
man of Peter Salt, as together they went out into
Grand Street.
Peter Salt gave him his house number, and the
officer made a pencil note.
“Let me hear from you,” said Inspector Val
to the policeman, “in case you make any finds.”
“Certainly, sir,” responded the policeman,
vastly promoted to find himself working side by
side with his celebrated superior.
Peter Salt went one way, the policeman another.
When both had departed, Inspector Val locked
fast the front door.
“I’ll defer investigations in that quarter,” was
his thought, as his glance rested on the tumbled
inanimate heap, “until the surgeons make their
MADAM LAURIE 187
report. Meanwhile, I’ll go over the premises.”
The body of Madam Laurie was lying squarely
in the doorway between the front and rear rooms.
Inspector Val stepped cautiously across it. There
was no sign of disorder in the small rear room;
the one window was closed and fastened, and the
flower-box on the ledge had not been disturbed.
The door to the narrow stairway, that led to
Madam Laurie's rooms above, was unlocked.
He climbed the stairs. A survey of the sitting-
room, and the diminutive bedroom and kitchen,
indicated no burglarious invasion in that quarter.
The windows of this floor, front and rear, were
also closed and locked, and no marks were present
that pointed to an attempt to open them. The
single bed in the sleeping room had not been occu-
pied. Plainly, Madam Laurie was called down-
stairs to her death before she retired.
In the sitting-room, the small drum-stove still
held a few live coals. A rocking chair stood in
front of the stove, with a work table to the left of
the chair. On the carpet was thrown a French
newspaper. It would seem as though Madam
Laurie had been sitting in the rocking chair before
the stove, lamp at elbow on the table, reading the
paper, when her attention was enlisted by some
downstairs alarm. The table now held no lamp;
but its absence was accounted for by the spilled
I88 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
kerosene and scattered fragments of glass below.
A single sweeping glance, that took in the sitting-
room, the bedroom, and the little kitchen, con-
vinced him that no one had visited them since the
death of Madam Laurie.
Inspector Val retraced his steps to the first
floor, and went down into the basement. It was
here his investigations began to bear fruit. The
rotten rear door had been forced from the outside.
It was guarded by a staple and padlock; the
staple had been torn from the worm-eaten door-
frame, and staple and padlock lay on the floor,
while the door itself stood open.
Ascending the steps to the backyard, Inspector
Val found numerous footprints in the soft April
ground, which the sun, drawing out the winter’s
frost, had turned to mud. There was a stone
walk, two feet wide, all about the four sides of the
yard. The walk enclosed an earthy plot used in
summer to grow flowers. This earth-plot had
been cut by heavy boots. A close look disclosed
three different and differing sets of footprints.
They were large and broad, and had been made
by boots with soles much worn, and heels run
down. Inspector Val returned and examined the
basement door. From a deep indentation in the
casing, and a fresh scar on the outside face of the
MADAM LAURIE 189
door itself, it was evident that the work had been
done jimmy-fashion.
An extended survey of the yard showed several
matters. There was no alley to the back, and
the Santa Marie was not a corner house. The
house-breakers had climbed the fence, separating
Madam Laurie's from the premises next door, to
which they had made their way from Grand
Street, through a narrow passage between the
houses. In Madam Laurie's yard, at the point
where they had scaled the fence, lay a large two-
inch chisel. It was a “framing” chisel, of the
sort used by carpenters on heavy timbers. In-
spector Val scanned the chisel for marks. On
the soft iron shank was stamped “Paul Barr.”
The maker’s name was in the steel, lower down.
“Paul Barr,” in the soft iron of the shank, was
doubtless the owner’s mark. He fitted the chisel
to the indentation in the door-casing. The experi-
ment made it sure that this was the tool employed
in forcing the padlock and staple. *
Inspector Val again descended to the basement.
Two claret bottles, and three that had held Bor-
deaux wine—from all of which the necks had
been knocked by rapping them smartly on the
side of a bin—were lying on the brick floor. An
old tin-cup was used to drink the wine, and a
quantity of the wine had been spilled on the
190 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
bricks. Aside from the five broken bottles, the
contents of the bins had not been interfered with.
He went up the creaking stairway to the main
floor. There were the sideboard and tables in
the front room, and the tables in the two rear
rooms. A careful going over argued nothing
amiss. Not a drawer had been opened, not a
glass broken or disturbed.
Unlocking the front door, Inspector Val stepped
out into Grand Street. A ragged boy was idling
across the way—an early bird, this boy. His
lively habit of turning out betimes justified an
aphorism anent worms, and earned the wakeful
urchin a dollar. He was enriched by this sum,
and sent scudding into the Bowery.
“Tell the first policeman you meet,” instructed
Inspector Val, “to come at once to the Santa
Marie.”
The boy disappeared like a shot; he felt his
mission, and his heels were winged with silver.
Two minutes later, a fat policeman came lumber-
ing up. At this, Inspector Val closed and locked
the door behind him; giving the key to the fat
policeman, he said:
“Remain in front until the Coroner arrives; open
the door for him, and leave the key in his charge.”
The policeman saluted, and Inspector Val
moved off in quest of breakfast.
MADAM LAURIE I9I
At Io o'clock Inspector Val was again at the
Santa Marie. He found the Coroner ready to
depart. A department surgeon was with him,
case of instruments in hand.
“Pistol wound,” said the Coroner, tersely.
“Shot entered the mouth without touching the
lips, probably fired as she was in the act of crying
out. The bullet struck the spinal column, just
at the base of the brain. Death was instantaneous.
Here’s the bullet.”
Inspector Val took the bullet. It was a blunt,
chunky piece of lead, shorter and bigger than the
usual run of pistol bullets. *
II
STRONG ARM MIKE
NSPECTOR VAL slept until three o'clock in
the afternoon. An hour later he appeared
at his desk in Mulberry Street, as bright and
rested as though his slumbers had numbered
those round eight hours appointed of nature,
instead of a scanty four. Mr. Sorg came in; that
worthy thief-taker reported the poppy-steeped
cashier as having recovered his senses, and con-
fessed his malefactions.
“Did you lock him up f" asked Inspector Val,
who was tearing open his official mail while he
talked.
“No,” returned Mr. Sorg, disgustedly.
Inspector Val glanced over the top of a letter,
and arched a brow inquiringly.
“It was this way,” Mr. Sorg explained. “The
president of the bank showed up, and decided to
make the shortage good. Meanwhile, he didn’t
want the cashier pinched, d'ye see, for fear it
would start a run on the bank. At least that’s
what he said; although, to speak as I think, I
wouldn't be surprised if he laid down for fear the
192
STRONG ARM MIKE I93
trial might turn up a disagreeable fact or two about
himself.”
“That may be,” said Inspector Val with a dis-
missive wave, returning to his letter-reading, “but
of course you can’t force him to prosecute; and,
if he won’t prosecute, that’s an end to the
affair.”
As Mr. Sorg arose to go, his chief again looked
up from the letter. “By the way, Mr. Sorg,
meet me at my rooms in Lafayette Place to-mor-
row at two o'clock.”
The heavy footfalls of Mr. Sorg still echoed in
the corridor, when the policeman encountered
that morning at the Santa Marie was announced.
He wore plain clothes, and was so overrun with
the importance of his task of shadowing Peter
Salt that he hadn't slept a wink. Having seen
his broad-faced quarry fairly home to supper, he
had come hot-foot to Mulberry Street to ask for
Inspector Val. He related how there was an
inquest, and that Peter Salt had testified. Also
the surgeon told his story of the autopsy. The
jury had returned, under the Coroner's guidance,
a verdict that Madam Laurie met her death as
the result of wounds inflicted by a pistol in the
hands of a person unknown. Peter Salt, by per-
mission of the authorities, had then taken charge
of the body, and was already deep in preliminary
194 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
arrangements for a funeral of mighty splendor
and magnificence. A French funeral director
had been installed in the Santa Marie, and the
leading spirits among Madam Laurie's old cus-
tomers were gathering, to give the occasion the
solemn glory of their countenance.
As for Peter Salt, himself, he had become
impressively respectable, where but yesterday he
was despised. The lawyer, who drew Madam
Laurie's will, had leaked the secret of his good
fortune, and that fortunate Alsatian was being
made the recipient of decorous congratulations.
Much wine was being, drunk with him, and one
or two, presuming upon his position as a capitalist,
had craved his counsel in intricate tangles of
business. -
Henry VIII, retorting to a nobleman who
wanted Holbein, the court painter, hanged for
having thrown him downstairs, is quoted as
angrily saying:
“Sirrah, begone! I should do nothing had he
slain you. I can take six peasants, and with a
breath transform them into six lords. But where
and how could I make another Holbein f°
There is so much to be royal in gold, that it
likewise can take the mud-invested clod and trans-
form him into all that is humanly excellent, and
nobly pure and high, and moon-faced Peter Salt,
STRONG ARM MIKE I95
in his sudden rise to riches was finding it out.
The policeman concluded by saying that, hav-
ing seen Peter Salt home to Rivington Street, and
understanding from what he had heard that his
charge—following a light refection—would return
to the Santa Marie and, with all its responsibili-
ties and honors, take up his position as chief
mourner, he, the policeman, had stolen time
from his shadowing to hurry over to the Central
Office, and inform Inspector Val of the important
progress of affairs.
The latter, with indomitable gravity, heard the
policeman to the end, and when he ran down
nodded his head as who should say, “Marvelous!”
The policeman, flattered to the echo by the grave
attention bestowed, and refreshed by that inscruta-
ble nod, arose with great spirit, saying he would
now go back to the Santa Marie, and resume his
vigil.
“But you must sleep!” remonstrated Inspector
Val, whose conscience began to smite him in
sight of such fidelity.
“Sleep!” returned the policeman, who was new
to the force, with a badge not eight weeks out of
the silversmith's, “sleep! Pardon me, Inspector”
—a dignified salute, here—“I shall never sleep
while duty stares me in the eye.”
Having tossed off this sentiment, he let himself
196 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
into the hall, and walked away exceeding stiff and
consequential. Inspector Val watched his retreat-
ing back, and shook his head.
“Recent!” he murmured; “very recent
Mr. Sorg was promptly in Lafayette Place at
the hour set by Inspector Val. As he walked
along that faded thoroughfare, he reflected on the
old houses which fenced the street. In the social
days of Washington Irving, Doctor Hosack, and
Philip Hone, Lafayette Place was the beating
heart of uppertendom, and those solid respectable
structures sheltered what was most beautiful
and brilliant among the city's aristocracy. But
those were days long ago; the tides of fashion
had ebbed from Lafayette Place, and left the old
houses stranded. Still they stood up very firm
and straight and formal, as though declining fate;
and, despite their frayed paints and out-at-elbows
porches—like old beaus gone to seed—spoke
bravely of former glories and protested their
departed magnificence. The old houses were,
in a mute way, pathetic, as far as pathos lurks in
bricks and mortar, and even the unimaginative
Mr. Sorg, who scorned things sentimental, felt
that vague, sympathetic sadness which comes
over one who walks in the midst of splendor no
longer splendid, and in its hour of decay. He
was in this softened mood when he plumped upon
|
STRONG ARM MIKE I97
a spectacle that brought him back to a prosaic
present.
There was nothing startling in the spectacle,
nothing more exciting than just a villainous-
looking tramp, seated upon the fire-plug in front
of the house where InspectorVal had his rooms.
This particular specimen owned naught beyond
the common marks of his useless sept. There
were the dirty stubble of beard sprouting through
tan, the soiled linen, the buttonless wristbands,
the greasy coat and trousers—latter upheld by an
equally greasy strap—the worn-out shoes, and the
disreputable hat. None the less, Mr. Sorg's
dander began to rise. It couldn't have been the
tramp's rags, or his apparent bathlessness, for
there were thousands of his grimy sort about the
streets. Perhaps it was the manner of cocky
confidence, as he sat on his fire-plug, and grace-
fully puffed at a cigar-butt—holding it, tramp-
fashion, between thumb and finger, knuckles
down. Whatever the cause, Mr. Sorg instantly
hated him from the roots of his soul.
“He’s no common panhandler,” was the harsh
thought; “he’s a yeggman. If ever I saw prison
in a face it's written there. I’d wager a hundred
he's been in twenty jails.”
With these unkind reflections, Mr. Sorg ap-
proached the tramp. That personage of perfect
198 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
leisure sat unmoved. Worse, he leered a leer of
lofty patronage, and—insult to injury—closed in
the leer with a supercilious wink. This last was
the straw that broke the camel's back—never a
strong camel—of Mr. Sorg's forbearance. Straight-
way, with a sweep of his massive hand, he would
have brought the tramp from his perch.
“Screw out!” he commanded, as he made the
sweeping motion.
To his amazement, the tramp proved as firmly
planted as the fire-plug itself. Also he grinned
evilly at the discomfitted officer, showing his
tobacco-discolored teeth.
Wonder-smitten, to find the tramp so deeply
rooted as to defy his own vast strength, Mr. Sorg,
shifting attack, seized the offensive hobo by his
greasy collar. Then the tramp spoke: “Come,
none of that! I'll hand you one in d'neck.”
Mr. Sorg gasped! Such language was unbe-
lievable! His amazement at the tramp's impu-
dence, was surpassed only by his amazement at
that vagrant's physical strength! Before Mr. Sorg
could recover from his astonishment, he of the
fire-plug emphasized it by saying:
“Cull, you're d'gum-shoe guy I was waitin’ fer,
see!”
“Waiting for me! I like that!”
“Sure! It was Inspector Val tells me to lay
STRONG ARM MIKE I99
for you. He has a date wit’ you, but you’re too
slow for his clock. So he chases; an’ leaves me
planted to give you your orders.”
Mr. Sorg glared. Could he credit his senses!
The tramp, between luxurious puffs, flowed
glibly on:
“Tell Sorg,” he says ‘to go at 5 o'clock, and
hang this on d’wall of Nigger Dave's joint in
Doyer Street.’”
The tramp took from beneath his coat a roll of
white paper, and gave it to Mr. Sorg. The latter
mechanically unrolled it, and read what was
printed thereon. Finishing the reading, he looked
up with a red face. A light was beginning to
break. As the light increased, his shame, and
those consequent blushes, kept pace with it. The
tramp watched him brightly the while, and the
shadow of a laugh crept about the corners of his
mouth. Mr. Sorg wagged his head dejectedly.
“You’re too fine for me, Inspector,” he said.
Then, bursting into compliment: “You oughtn't
to be wasting yourself in Mulberry Street, when
you could slaughter ’em in vaudeville right now!”
“Think I’ll pass muster in Doyer Street?”
“You’ll do!” returned Mr. Sorg, with a sigh.
Then, lugubriously: “As I’ve told you, I ain’t
fitted for this business. I ought to be running
one of those day nurseries, and taking care of kids,
200 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
at so much per kid, while their mothers are out
washing.”
“Seriously, Sorg, those are the orders: At 5
sharp, walk into Nigger Dave's and hang that
placard on the wall. When you’ve hung it up, go
about your business. In ten minutes, return; and
after that take the office from me.”
“All right!” said Mr. Sorg, preparing to con-
tinue his walk. “At 5 sharp, Nigger Dave's,
Doyer Street!”
Mr. Sorg departed up the street, while the tramp
on the fire-plug gave his disreputable head-wear
an added cock, and took another pull at the cigar-
butt. He sat on the fire-plug, until Mr. Sorg was
out of sight, and then slouched away in his turn.
Nigger Dave's was a low, dangerous den, in-
fested rather than patronized by the viler elements
among criminals. No one of standing in the
world of crime ever came to Nigger Dave's. It
was the rendezvous of a nameless riffraff of evil
that, wanting equally in skill and wit, had nothing
but viciousness to be their criminal stock in trade.
The place was not imposing. Near the door
stood the bar, behind which lounged a barman
who himself had seen the inside of Sing Sing for
too clumsily wielding a sandbag. On the smoke-
blackened walls, were a cheap picture or two, and
back of the bar hung an announcement that the
STRONG ARM MIKE 2OI
Five Points Association would give its last “Smok-
er,” for the season, April thirtieth. In the rear
abode a rickety piano, silent through the day
but noisy enough at night, when the tides of Nig-
ger Dave's custom touched highest mark. Over
the piano—a curiosity not to be explained—was
tacked a placard reciting that:
No discussion
of
Politics or Religion
Allowed.
Should you ever drop in at Nigger Dave's,
don't laugh at that declaration. You would find
your merriment fiercely resented by the malefactor
behind the bar, who would bombard you with
glasses. The politico-religious warning must be
taken seriously and in silence.
Late on the particular afternoon that saw the
meeting of Mr. Sorg and the tramp in Lafayette
Place, four rough specimens—one of them the
yeggman who had so angered Mr. Sorg—were
grouped about a sloppy table in a corner of Nigger
Dave's. Beyond these, and the Sing Sing barman,
no one was in the place. The barman loafed over
his duties, wrapped in sullen thought. Possibly he
was ruminating those Sing Sing years, and curs-
202 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
ing his own bungling stupidity in sandbagging a
wayfarer without making sure of the whereabouts
of the nearest policeman.
The four at the table were drinking beer from
those deep capacious glasses popular on the East
Side. The bogus yeggman, just from the roads,
was a leader in the conversation, the others giving
way, since it was he who bought the beer. Among
these human off-scourings, gold is as important
in settling a social status as it is on upper Fifth
Avenue. The yeggman had money; his three
companions had none. Wherefore they sat silent
when he was minded to talk.
The yeggman was telling some wayside adven-
ture. In its relation he used the flash patter of
his clan, which the others appeared perfectly to
understand. .
“Then I made a swell in a boozing ken,” said
the yeggman, who was in the middle of the story;
“he was lushy—put me to bed with a shovel, but
that sucker was lushy! Well, I trimmed him
good! I drew the honey from his poke, fifty quid
it was. Then I flimped his thimble—a yellow
one. Next I cops his spark-fawney. That was
my last trick. After that I jumps the rattlers
and makes for town. When I gets in, I fenced
the fawney for fifty.”
“Where did you plant the thimble fº asked one
STRONG ARM MIKE 203
of the listeners, deeply held by the story; “you
had a bang-up graft.”
“Bang up! Beats laying for lushes around
here. Frisk a dozen of 'em, and what do you
make Bridge tickets and beer!”
“But the thimble! Have you got it in your
keck P” .
“The thimble No; it has the sucker’s name
on it, and I sent it to church to be faked over.
I’d have fenced it as it was; but, say! that old
snaffler of a Jew wanted to cut it in two with me.
I was too fly, though; it'll bring one hundred
when it’s right. I cleaned up three hundred quid
on the trip—may I grin through a glass case if I
don’t l”
“Stubble the gabl” whispered the brute-faced
creature who sat across-table from the garrulous
yeggman; “stubble, and ware the bull!”
It was the advent of Mr. Sorg that provoked
the warning whisper from the brute-faced one.
He came in with a heavy business-like directness
that showed a purpose. The purpose in hand was
soon made clear. With a bluff nod to the sullen
barman, who returned it uneasily, and never word
nor look to the beer-drinking four, Mr. Sorg
rounded the end of the bar and approached
the wall. Unrolling the white paper, given him
in Lafayette Place, he fastened it with heavy
204 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
pins to the bottom of a picture. It unfurled
to its length, and Mr. Sorg stepped aside and
headed for the door, as one whose sole duty
in Nigger Dave's had been discharged. As he
disappeared through the door, the brute-faced
one, his eyes furtive and shifty like the eyes of a
threatened rat, drew a long breath. His fasci-
nated gaze was on the paper which fluttered from
the picture.
The sullen barman came from behind the bar,
and read aloud the fresh contribution to the wall’s
ornaments. This is what was printed there, in
large black letters:
ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS REWARD !
THE ABOVE SUM WILL BE PAID FOR INFOR-
MATION THAT LEADS TO THE ARREST AND
CONVICTION OF THE PERSON, OR PERSONS,
WHO, ON THE NIGHT OF APRIL EIGHTH,
MURDERED MADAM LAURIE AT H E R
HOUSE, IN GRAND STREET, CALLED THE
SANTA MARIE.
INSPECTOR VAL.
The sullen barman reeled off the above in a loud
even tone, ringing out “Inspector Val” like a
Herald. Then he looked tentatively at the brute-
faced one. That individual, who in circles where-
STRONG ARM MIKE 2O5
in he moved was known as Strong Arm Mike,
giggled uneasily under the barman's gaze.
“Say, Bill!” he said, with the ghost of a quaver,
“you wouldn't squeal on a pal, just because some
bull promised a thousand bones º'
“Me squeal!” exclaimed the sullen barman,
wrathfully. “I’m no snitch. If I was, I could
have put you away a dozen times.”
The brute-faced one seemed relieved. He
turned to the two who with him had been drink-
ing the yeggman's beer. They were ghastly,
with a kind of gathering terror in their muddy
cheeks. -
“Brace up!” cried the brute-faced one. “You
mugs ain't in the Tombs yet, you know.” Then
with a bragging air, “Say, how did I look when
that bluff went up on the wall? Did I shift
color P”
“It never touched you, Strong Arm
admirer.
“Stood it like a rock, you did!” said the other.
“What's all the row * asked the yeggman,
curiously, appealing to Strong Arm Mike. “Was
it you that croaked the old lady ?”
“What's that to you ?” demanded Strong Arm
Mike ferociously. -
“To me? Nothing,” said the yeggman. Then,
to the sullen barman: “Beer all 'round. This
!” said one
206 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
cove,” tossing his thumb towards the brute-faced
Strong Arm, “is turning funky.”
“Funky nothing!” returned Strong Arm Mike,
a bit mollified by the approach of beer. “But
it's no fun to see that paper go up, bang! right
before your ogles, and you in nothing for the job
but four or five bottles of vinegar. And all,
mind you, just because these joskins”—indicat-
ing the two—“gets leery at the noise of the gun,
and won’t stay to turn out the crib. I’ll bet
there was no end of dough in the old French
woman's boxes, upstairs.” .
“Why didn't you, yourself, stay and cop it f°
asked the yeggman. “I’d have had up the boards
of the floor before I was through.”
“So would I,” said Strong Arm Mike; “but
when I hears these sneaks scrambling at the
fence to get away, I thought some bull had made
us; and with that I legs it, too.” -
“You were the first into Grand Street, Mike,”
said one of the others, smarting under his leader's
tallntS.
“Don’t hand me any of your guff,” shouted
Strong Arm Mike, aiming a swinging blow, which
the other ducked. “Don’t give me any gab or
I’ll knock your block off.” Then, his beady
rat-eyes roving again to the paper: “Inspector
Vall” This with vast contempt. “Inspector
STRONG ARM MIKE 2O7
Wall Why, I’m wise to that mut! Say, he's a
false alarm; he don’t know he’s alive! I wish I
had him here; I’d cook him!”
“There!” exclaimed the yeggman, rapping on
the table; “you’ve made row enough! Just
pitch the tune in a lower key!”
Strong Arm Mike started. There was some
excuse; for the yeggman was rapping the table,
not with an innocent beer glass, but a pair of
handcuffs. Strong Arm Mike surveyed the hard-
ware as though it were a brace of rattlesnakes.
His brute face worked in confusion and growing
alarm. -
“What have you got there ** he cried. “Who
are you ?”
“Who am I ?” repeated the yeggman, sweetly.
“I’m Inspector Val. There; hold out your wrists
for the ruffles.”
Strong Arm Mike leaped from his chair, over-
turning the table, sending beer and glasses crash-
ing. He was too slow; like a flash his throat
was seized in a clutch of steel, and he was hurled
to the floor.
Stunned, and half choked, Strong Arm Mike
wilted like a rag. Click! click! and the brace-
lets were on him. The cold metal at his wrists
seemed to stir him; he began to weep and cry
like a child.
208 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
“There's sand for you!” said Inspector Val,
contemptuously, speaking to the sullen barman,
and stirring Strong Arm Mike with his foot,
where that unworthy rolled sobbing about the
floor.
When Inspector Val seized Strong Arm Mike
by the throat, the latter's comrades sat frozen,
wanting word or motion. It was quite as fortu-
nate. A heavy hand fell on each. They glanced
up in a frightened way; there above them was
the callous impassive visage of Mr. Sorg. At
sight of him, the two began to squeak like rats.
Mr. Sorg coölly hooked them wrist to wrist, with
his own particular pair of handcuffs, and then
addressed Inspector Val.
“What next P”
“Rap for the patrol, and take them in. Mean-
while, I’ll get back to Lafayette Place and improve
my looks.” Then, as he was about to leave:
“By the way, Sorg, take in the bill. There’ll be
none to claim the one thousand dollars now, and
leaving it hanging might make a scandal.”
It was the next evening. No one would have
recognized in the fashionably dressed Inspector
Val, the yeggman of Nigger Dave's. He seemed
out of humor, for upon his brow hung a discourag-
ing cloud.
“It was rather a cheap piece of business, Sorg,”
STRONG ARM MIKE 209
he said wearily. “Each of those dogs simply
begged and prayed to turn State's evidence against
the other two. It's enough to make one sick of
thief catching. I really believe that the breed of
criminals is deteriorating.”
“Still,” observed Mr. Sorg, judgmatically, and
as though nicely weighing details, “I should
describe it as a quick piece of work. Madam
Laurie is found dead; and in fewer than forty-
eight hours you clap the darbies on the murder-
ers. Sharp work, I call it; exceedingly sharp
work!” Then, as a recollection seizes him, he
added: “Why, that faking yourself as a yeggman
was of itself a triumph of art!”
Inspector Val smiled faintly, as some picture
of his encounter with Mr. Sorg in Lafayette Place
ruffled the surface of his sense of humor. Mr.
Sorg caught the smile, construed it, and put on a
sheep’s look. This he shook off with a question:
“How did you locate your parties in Nigger
Dave's P’’ -
“I made an appointment to meet them there,
two hours before you assaulted me on the fire-
plug. ‘Screw out!” he repeated, mimicking Mr.
Sorg's official voice, and illustrating the imitation
by a duplicate of the arm-sweep wherewith that
gentleman would have brushed the impertinent
hobo from his seat. --
2 Io CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
Mr. Sorg ignored this piece of pleasantry,
although to be thus parodied was a sore trial to
his sensibilities. He attempted a diversion.
“Tell me how you arrived at your knowledge
of Strong Arm Mike as the murderer. There's
nothing, Inspector, that so helps a dull man as
to hear, step by step, how some genius brings
about the marvels he performs.”
“Don’t attempt sarcasm, Sorg; you’re unfitted
for the satirical. This is how the argument ran
that, after the murder of Madam Laurie led to
the criminals. My examination of the Santa
Marie convinced me that the crime was not the
work of professional house-breakers. A profes-
sional would never have bothered the Santa
Marie; there was not enough treasure to make it
worth a self-respecting cracksman’s while. Then,
losing the chisel in the flight, and the flight itself,
without the slightest effort to ransack the house,
indicated a lack of nerve that would have dis-
graced your true blue burglar.
“There were three of them; the tracks in the
back yards showed that. The men who made
those tracks were badly shod, with old, worn-out
boots. You have observed, Sorg, that a man’s
footwear is an infallible index to his apparel.
Poor, ragged, worn-out boots mean poor, ragged,
worn-out clothing. I could tell, by those
STRONG ARM MIKE 2 II
footprints, that my men were clad like tramps.
“Altogether, I had no difficulty in deciding that
the murder of Madam Laurie was gang work.
Three dull-witted bar-flies—thick, beer-soaked
toughs, such as hang about the East Side bar-
rooms, had done the job. Every indication con-
vinced me that I would find my men within a mile
of the Santa Marie. The question was how to
track them The chisel I was certain they had
stolen. I had a roundsman look up ‘Paul Barr.’
He found him at work in Great Jones Street. Paul
Barr turned out to be—as I knew he would—a
very honest carpenter, who was overjoyed to see
his chisel again. He said it had been stolen from
his kit the day before the murder.”
“Had he any notion as to the thief ?”
“Not a glimmer. It was stolen at noon, when
he was at lunch. No, there was nothing to be
drawn from the chisel, save that it aided the theory
that the burglary was the work not of professionals,
but of cheap Bowery roughs. The one clue was
the bullet. To begin with.”—and here Inspector
Val took the short, clumsy piece of lead from his
pocket, and placed it on the desk—“it indicates
the pistol, from which it was fired, to be of unusual
caliber—caliber-41. There is only one pistol of
that caliber, the Derringer. Usually the Der-
ringer—which is generally a single shot pistol—
212 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
comes in pairs. It is essentially a rough's or a
gambler's gun. This is how I figured: The
murderers, one of them armed with a Derringer,
had broken into the basement, using the chisel
to force their way. After sampling the wine,
they climbed the stairs to the first floor. It
couldn’t have been late, for Madam Laurie sat
reading, not having gone to bed. Either break-
ing the necks of the wine bottles, or the creaking
of the basement stairs—I observed them to be quite
noisy, as I myself went up and down them—
attracted Madam Laurie's attention. She took
the lamp in her hand, and came down to the first
floor. Apparently, she surprised one or all of
the three burglars in the big front room, and before
a drawer had been opened. Probably she cried
out. The burglar or burglars were startled;
one of them, the one with the Derringer, Strong
Arm Mike, in fact, in the stampede that seized
his cowardly nerves, fired. The shot took effect
in Madam Laurie's mouth, causing instant death.
She fell; the lamp, either blown out by the con-
cussion of the pistol shot or by the wind of the fall,
was dashed to pieces on the floor.”
“The pistol shot would blow it out.”
“Probably! On the heels of the surprise and
the shot, the murderers fled, dropping the chisel
in the hurry of getting away.
STRONG ARM MIKE 213
“Having gotten away, what would be the first
step of such clumsy-witted rogues The utmost
of their strategy would be to get rid of the Der-
ringer. How would they get rid of it? They
wouldn’t throw it in the river; the two or three
dollars it should bring would be a profound con-
sideration with such as I’ve described. Inevitably
they would take the Derringer to the pawn-
shops.
“That evening I began a round of the pawn-
shops. I had already told you to meet me in
Lafayette Place; for I could see how the affair
would develop, and knew I’d need your help. In
my search through the pawnshops, I had luck.
The first one I stepped into—a shop in the Bowery,
near Chatham Square—had bought two Derrin-
gers within the hour before I called. The pawn-
broker knew me, and readily told his story. The
more readily, since he was smarting under wrongs
of his own.
“He said that the two Derringers were brought
in by a slight rat of a lad, whose age might have
been ten years. His first thought was that the
lad, who declared that a man—whose name he
wouldn’t give—told him to sell them, had stolen
the Derringers. The pawnbroker said nothing,
however, but bought the pair for five dollars.
Then he whispered to his son to follow the lad.
214 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
“The latter climbed the stairs in an old house
near the Five Points, and entered a door on the
second floor. The pawnbroker's son, after wait-
ing a moment, also climbed the stairs and rapped
at the door. The door was opened by Strong
Arm Mike; his two pals, and the sisters of one
of them were in the room. The lad who sold the
Derringers had just given Strong Arm Mike
the money; it was in the ruffian’s hand.
“What are you after P cried Strong Arm Mike,
to the pawnbroker's son.
“I wanted to see what he did with the money,’
pointing to the rat of a lad.
“‘Oh, that’s your lay!' The next moment,
the pawnbroker's son was knocked down the
flight of stairs by a blow of Strong Arm Mike's
fist.
“That was the pawnbroker's story. As a finale,
his son—head nicely bandaged—accompanied me
to the Five Points, and pointed out the scene of
his adventures.
“Once I had identified Strong Arm Mike as
my man, the rest was open sailing. I learned his
hang-out in Nigger Dave's, and was ready, next
day, in my role of yeggman, to make his acquain-
tance. I met him an hour before you attacked
me in Lafayette Place, and we agreed to come
together later at Nigger Dave's. I think, as an
STRONG ARM MIKE 2I 5
inducement to the last, I hinted at putting him
in the way of money.”
“But your offer of one thousand dollars reward *
“That is coming. I could see that for me, a
stranger, to openly approach Strong Arm Mike
on the subject of Madam Laurie's murder would
alarm him. He is dull; but he is also suspicious,
as many dull ones are. Besides, in my character
of a yeggman just in from the tramp, I wasn't
supposed to know of what blood had been spilled
at the Santa Marie, or any other movement in
East Side society. After turning the matter over
in my mind, as an easy, sure method of making
my man talk—and at the same time avoid draw-
ing the horns of his distrust towards me—I con-
ceived the plan of hanging up the reward placard
in Nigger Dave’s.”
“And it worked like a bellpunch!”
Inspector Val was about to make some reply,
when Mr. Bowles opened the outer door, and
announced the policeman who had been shadowing
Peter Salt. That officer desired a few moments’
private talk with Inspector Val.
“Let him come in.”
The policeman jealously scanned Mr. Sorg.
“I suppose I can speak before him ** he whis-
pered, with a doubtful nod towards that officer.
216 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
“With perfect safety,” returned Inspector Val.
The policeman then related how Peter Salt had
set the funeral of Madam Laurie for the next day.
Also, either through grief or the glory of his new
estate as a capitalist, he was drinking profoundly
of Bordeaux wine. The talk among the mourn-
ers, who were very numerous, very constant, and
very thirsty, ran to the effect that, following the
funeral, he designed to continue the business of
the Santa Marie. The policeman intimated that
he looked upon these several matters as squint-
ing towards the red-handed guilt of Peter Salt.
He wound up by asking whether he himself had
not better attend the funeral.
Inspector Val thought he might do so with
profit and propriety. “I am, however, afraid,
Mr. Officer,” he added, “that you will have to
abandon your theory as to the guilt of Peter Salt.
Strong Arm Mike, and two of his fleet were the
murderers. They were brought in last evening
by Mr. Sorg, and have one and all confessed.”
THE STOLEN RED DIAMOND.
T
THE HOUSE PARTY.
“A” all things, Sorg, neVer permit
so much as a spot of red to creep
into your costume.” Inspector Val,
for that excellent officer’s improvement, was
lecturing Mr. Sorg on the subject of disguises,
and the art of garbing one’s self to match a
character.
There had been a silk robbery; the thieves
took forty bolts of superb silk, from the rear
windows of a downtown wholesale house. The
crime, by the word of the policeman on post,
must have been committed between the hours
of eleven o’clock and midnight, and the brief
time employed, together with the huge quantity
of silk stolen, had pointed to a truck—or wagon
of some sort—as one of the inevitable elements
in its perpetration. Acting on this hint, Mr.
Sorg had been playing truckman; and, so well
did he carry out his role, that, first finding the
teamster who drove away the silk, he next located
and captured the thieves, arresting them in the
very act of “fencing” the goods with a predatory
219
220 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
personage who kept an establishment in Grand
Street for just such shady commerce. Mr. Sorg
had come in to report, and while Inspector Val
congratulated him, he also picked flaws in his
attire, especially denouncing a flaming red tie
wherewith Mr. Sorg had—as a truckman—em-
bellished himself.
“Never wear red, eh,” mused Mr. Sorg. “Now
do you know, Inspector, I was patting myself on
the back about this make-up. It struck me,
face and all, as the real thing.”
“Shaving off your mustache was a proper move,
and that ten days’ growth of beard, while hideous,
is in character. Your clothes, however, are too
fine, and don’t exhibit the stains and wear and
tear of hard work. You look too much like a
theatrical truckman, and not enough like a real
one. I wonder that teamster did not suspect you.
He must have been singularly dull. The red tie
of itself ought to have alarmed him. To mount
neckwear of such arterial hue, Sorg, was a grievous
blunder, and you may thank the thick witlessness
of the birds you’ve snared, that it didn’t spoil all.”
Mr. Sorg looked himself over in helpless ex-
asperation. Then he crossed to a small mirror,
framed in the wall above a marble washstand,
“You keep shooting away at the red tie,” he
observed, complainingly, after a moment's con-
THE HOUSE PART1C 22 I
templation of that radiant article of dress, as
reflected in the glass. “I can’t get over the
notion that it’s a dandy finish to my blue shirt and
canvas jacket. Why should a crooked teamster
have shied at it **
“The trouble lies here: Of all colors, red is
the surest to attract attention. Now attention,
when on the scent of a criminal, is the last thing
you should invite. The object of a disguise,
after suggesting a certain character or trade,
is to lull to sleep the suspicious curiosity of men.
Therefore, no disguise should be so pronounced,
or so excessive, as to cause him who dons it to
become a subject of even careless interest. One
may overdo a disguise. A belt and sheath knive
are, all the world over, recognized marks of the
sailor. And yet, if I wanted to impersonate a
sailor, and work along the river front, I’d avoid
both belt and knife. For this reason: They invoke
rather than escape attention, and a man may be
a very good seaman without them. A least in-
terest, even where no suspicion accompanies it,
sets the idle to putting questions. ‘What ship
did you sail in last f° says one. “You’ve of course
been into Havana P" says another. Harmless
queries; and yet any one of them might lead to
discovery and disaster. You catch my idea P"
“Why, yes,” responded Mr. Sorg, with the
222 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
reluctant manner of one unconvinced; “the idea
is very obvious.”
“And as to the red; it not alone rivets attention,
but breeds resentment. Meet some stranger who
wears a red tie or waistcoat, and see if, in a vague
way, you don’t hate him. Certain bellicose
animals, the bull and the turkey gobbler, will
attack one wearing red. Tie a red handkerchief
about the neck of a dog; in the first mile down
the street a dozen angry dogs will fall upon him,
and criticise him with their teeth. And men,
you should remember, Sorg, are nothing but ani-
mals, subdued of civilization and held at bay by
law.”
“Well,” returned the other, with sullen com-
placency, “red tie or black tie, I got my men.”
“Which would not have been the upcome had
you been dealing with criminals above the vulgar
level of common cracksmen. If you had been on
the trail of a bank sneak or a forger, and were—
comparatively speaking—as wild in your color-
scheme, you wouldn't have come within a block
of him. In the language of the guild, Sorg, he
would have ‘made you’ and got away.”
The door opened, and a gray-uniformed letter-
carrier came in. Nodding pleasantly, he laid
down a handful of letters.
“You have a big mail, Inspector,” said the letter-
THE HOUSE PART1" 223
carrier, easily. Coming every day, he was an old
acquaintance.
“Yes, a big mail, as you say. It shows the
world exceedingly wicked.”
Inspector Val had begun to look over the letters
as he spoke. The carrier departed, and Mr.
Sorg picked up the evening paper. Two wordless
minutes passed, Mr. Sorg busy with the news,
his chief buried in his mail.
“Hello!” Mr. Sorg looked up. “I must go
down into the Meadowbrook country.” Inspec-
tor Val seemed a bit ashamed of his exclamation.
“What will you do at Meadowbrook f"
“Go into society.”
Inspector Val again ran his eye over the letter
that had surprised him into the “Hello!” so
damaging to a personal stoicism and impassivity,
which is or should be the mark of your seasoned
detective. He read the missive aloud to Mr.
Sorg.
Inspector Val, Mulberry Street,
My dear Inspector:
You helped me out in the matter of that Colon forgery, and
now I need your aid worse than I did then. I have met with
a great loss, one I cannot repair. Come with all speed to
Hempstead, as I think the diamond still here. Wire me, and
I'll meet you at the station. I can give you details while
driving to my house. Yours in haste,
HENRY WAN ORTH,
P. S. You may have to remain a week. There's a
house-party with me, about ten guests; you will come as
the eleventh. W.
224 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
“Ah, I see!” quoth Mr. Sorg. “You’re to play
the boundless swell; that postscript touch, about
being the eleventh guest, is a hint to bring the
proper togs. You can now put into experiment
your excellent notions on the subject of dis-
guises.”
Inspector Val smiled; he detected a disposition
toward derision, Mr. Sorg being still sore over
that denunciation of his gorgeous neckwear. As
he pulled down the slide of his desk, preparatory
to departure, Mr. Sorg became all business, and
asked:
“Will you need me?”
“Not immediately. I may, later; in that event
I’ll write.”
“It was a cool September day when Inspector
Val stepped off the train at Hempstead. Brummel
himself, had that exquisite been called upon for
opinion, could have found no fault with his cos-
tume, which was that of a quiet, fine gentleman of
reserve and finish, about to idle away a week in
the country. Mr. Van Orth met him at the station.
As the pair were about to step into the Van Orth
brougham, for a four-mile drive to Orthoaks—
for such was the rather curious name Mr. Van
Orth had bestowed upon his country place—the
latter gentleman said:
“Give me your checks, please. I’ve a man
THE HOUSE PARTY 225
with a light wagon who'll see after your luggage.”
The luggage question disposed of, and the two
on their rapid way to Orthoaks, Mr. Van Orth,
without waiting to be questioned, began his tale.
“There is,” said he, “as I suggested in my
letter, a house-party at Orthoaks.”
“If you’ll permit,” interrupted Inspector Val,
“I would prefer to ask questions. If you will
answer the queries I shall put, I can come by a
more rapid understanding of what I should
know.”
“Proceed!”
“What have you lost?”
“My famous red diamond. It's over seven
carats, pure as the best ruby, and no less valuable.
In fact, being almost alone as a gem, it is worth
more than any ruby of equal weight. There's
no other diamond of its kind on earth. I found
it in Bond Street, and paid eight thousand pounds
for it.”
Mr. Van Orth was of that school of rich Ameri-
cans who, while manly and self-respecting in other
directions, are on their abject social knees to
England. He would sooner say “pounds” than
“dollars” any time, and an “English gentleman,”
or better still a Briton who could lay claim to
noble lineage, was to him a demi-god. A cynic
friend once said of him: “He doesn't expect to
226 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
go to heaven when he dies, he expects to go to
England.” This brief descriptive flash may give
some picture of Mr. Van Orth. Aside from the
above, he was a thin, trim, quick, smallish man,
gray, well-groomed, sixty years old, rich unto
millions, and, ten years before, in a mood quasi-
snobbish, had come to the Meadowbrook region
with a plan of bursting into what he called society.
Mr. Van Orth, because he evinced a monetary
willingness to keep up the local kennel of fox-
hounds, had vastly succeeded in his social am-
bitions. The Meadowbrook folk, that is the
aristocratic colony—who didn’t live there, but
being migratory, like the wild geese, came spring
and fall—liked fox-dogs. But they didn't like
the expense. Wherefore, when Mr. Van Orth
seemed ready to constitute himself the fiscal prop
of the kennels, these gilded ones, whose social
countenance he sought, laid aside the frowns,
which at first they were inclined to bestow upon
him as a vulgarian and a climber, and glowed
instead. They took him to their silken bosoms,
and, at the time he called in Inspector Val, he
regarded himself as securely placed in metropolitan
fashion. Fifth Avenue, Meadowbrook, and New-
port rounded out his year, and he went in for paper
chases, single stickers, horse shows, polo, golf,
THE HOUSE PARTY 227
and what else his partcular set affected as showiest
methods of wasting their elegant time.
“Your red diamond,” repeated Inspector Val.
“When did you lose it?”
“This is Wednesday: It was taken Monday
evening about seven o’clock.”
“Now the house-party. Who are at your
place f* -
“The family proper; that is to say myself, my
son Paul, my daughter Ethel, and my widowed
sister Mrs. Hogeden-Hogeden, who, since my
wife's death two years ago, presides over my
house. Aside from these are seven guests: the
Honorable Bideford Blake of Sussex, England,
Mrs. Burrell of Providence, her son Frank—he
was in Harvard with Paul—Mr. Towne of Tuxedo,
his daughter Miss Towne, and the Misses Leonard
and Rich. The last are from Philadelphia.”
“And the servants **
“Those who sleep in the house are old Roger
the butler, two footmen, a boy, the cook, a kitchen
maid, and three housemaids. Yes, there are also
my son's valet, and a maid who attends my daugh-
ter.”
“These were all in the house Monday evening **
“There then, as they are there now; no one
has come, no one has departed. I shall intro-
duce you as Mr. Howard Bloss of San Francisco.
228 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
I told them yesterday, when I got your wire, tha
you were coming.” & -
“Very good. Now give me the particulars of
your loss. The diamond vanished, you say,
Monday evening.”
“This is the strory: Dinner had been ordered
for 7:30. The whole party were assembled in the
two drawing-rooms. You know I’ve a fad for
gems; I’m a maniac for colors, and usually carry
about with me a lot of unset diamonds, rubies,
emeralds, and sapphires. I’ve a handful in my
pocket now.” Here Mr. Van Orth thrust his
hand into his trousers' pocket, and took out a
dozen loose stones that glimmered sleepily in his
palm. “It’s a taste, I have,” he went on. “When
I’m alone, I gaze on them for hours on end. I go—
to use a vulgarism—on a fashion of color-drunk;
these gems fairly hypnotize me.”
“Get to the red diamond,” interjected Inspector
Val, who had professional objections to being
overloaded with details, outside of and unim-
portant to a case in hand; “get to your red
diamond and its disappearance, if you please.”
“Quite right. While we were in the drawing-
rooms, awaiting a summons to dinner, talk drifted
to precious stones. Paul mentioned my red dia-
mond, and asked me to show it to Mr. Blake. I
had it with me; for, when I shifted into evening
THE HOUSE PART1C 229
clothes, I transferred it with some others to my
pocket. Being my fad, as I’ve confessed, I was
quite willing to exhibit the stone to Mr. Blake;
the more, since as a scion of one of the oldest
families in Sussex, I knew he would appreciate it.”
“You speak of drawing-rooms. In which room
were you at the time *
“In the back drawing-room; the one we call
the blue room.”
“Were those you have named in the blue room
with you?”
“Now I can’t surely say. Mr. Blake, Paul,
Frank Burrell, and Miss Rich were there, for I
recall how they stood about me as I produced the
diamond. Also, my sister was there; she fainted,
or pretended to, when the candlestick fell off the
table. Between us, while my sister is an admir-
able woman, she has her weaknesses; one of them
is to consider her nerves as easily shocked. She
will faint at a least opportunity; only, as I inti-
mated, I distrust those swoons. However, they
please her, and so no one objects.”
“Let us get back to the diamond.”
“Precisely! I’ve named all that I’m sure were
in the blue room, when I exhibited it. Any of
the others may have been there; or they may all
have been in the other drawing-room. Now I
can pass over what was said in admiration of the
230 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
red diamond. It went from hand to hand, and
was exclaimed at and adored, and at last came
back into my hand.”
“To whom did you first give it *
“Mr. Blake. The last one to have it was young
Frank Burrell, who gave it back to me when all
had viewed it.”
“Then what P”
“We were standing near the end of an ebony
table, upon which was a ten-branch glass candle-
stick. We were collected about the candlestick—
some behind the others, for I can recall Miss
Rich's hand on my shoulder and her face looking
over.”
“Who stood right and left of you?”
“Mr. Blake was on my left; young Burrell
was on my right.”
“Very well!”
“Just as I received the diamond from young
Burrell, two things happened: dinner was an-
nounced by old Roger, and the big cut-glass candle-
stick, near which we were gathered, went to the
floor. It must have been set too near the edge,
although old Roger says not. In any event it
went toppling, just as I got the diamond into my
fingers. On the impulse, I dropped the diamond
on the table, and clutched at the falling candle-
THE HOUSE PART1C 23I
stick. I missed; and, crash! it struck the floor.
It flew into a hundred flinders.”
“And next f°
“For the moment, I forgot the diamond. There
was a deal of confusion; my sister screamed and
sank fainting into a chair—or at least let on that
she had fainted. Little Miss Rich squeaked, but
did not faint, while Mr. Blake, Paul, young Burrell
and I, bumped our heads together over the broken
candlestick.”
“Were you in the dark f"
“By no means. The broken candlestick was
one of four, and the other three, ten wax candles
in each, were burning full blast. Besides, there
came a flood of light through the open doors from
the other drawing-room.”
“I see!”
“Now we are near the end. There was, when
the first shock was over and Mrs. Hogeden-
Hogeden had been so good as to come around—
a suggestion of water by Mr. Blake revived her;
I'm afraid her complexion, and her eyebrows,
wouldn’t survive a bath—there was, I say, a
hearty general laugh at the disorder into which
we had been thrown. Then the guests began
moving towards the dining-room. I remained
with old Roger, who hurried in to superintend the
removal of the wreck. Of course, mind off
232 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
the broken candlestick, my first thought was the
diamond. I turned to the table where I had laid
it; it was not there.”
“Did anyone note its absence beside yourself?”
“No one; the others were near the doors, on
their way in to dinner, while old Roger was bent
over the ruins of the candlestick, picking up the
broken glass. The moment I missed the diamond,
the conviction went through my heart that I was
not to see it again. It was intuition. The first
cold touch of the thought robbed me of words;
when I recovered my power of speech, I continued
to be silent, deeming it the wiser course. All
save myself and old Roger were out of the room
by now. I instantly dispatched the old man to the
dining-room to say that they were to begin dinner;
I’d be with them presently. While alone in the
room, I searched everywhere for ten minutes,
both on and under the table, indeed into every
corner of the room, but found nothing. With
that the conviction overcame me that the diamond
had been stolen. It’s a hard word; but what
other shall I use The diamond was there; it
had assuredly disappeared. There was nothing
else to think. Some one had stolen it—taken it
in the confusion of the crashing candlestick, and
the affected faintings of Mrs. Hogeden-Hogeden.
That I had been robbed of my pet red diamond
THE HOUSE PART1? 233
left me like one stricken; when old Roger returned,
and resumed cleaning up the glass, I was in a phy-
sical as well as mental daze. I watched him
mechanically as he worked, and gradually recov-
ered my poise. By the time he had finished, I was
again in possession of myself.”
“Right there. Did your mind fasten sus-
picion upon anyone : I don’t care for the reason
or unreason of it; I simply want the fact. At a
crisis, one’s instinct runs very true sometimes.”
“I had no suspicion. The loss is forty-eight
hours old; I’ve had nothing else in my thoughts
and yet I’ve no suspicion now. I don’t know
what to make of it, or what to say. All I’m sure
of is that the diamond was stolen, under the cir-
cumstances I’ve described.”
“Old Roger ?”
“I’d as soon suspect myself.”
“What next did you do?”
“The only thing I could. I pulled myself to-
gether, and joined the others at dinner. Having
time to consider a course, I decided to say nothing
until I’d consulted you. So I ate my dinner—
or tried to—and kept my loss to myself. Imme-
diately after dinner, I wrote you.”
“And you’ve told no one *
“No one.”
234 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
“None then, save the thief and ourselves, has
knowledge of the robbery f"
“Precisely.”
“You, of course, kept a sharp eye going at din-
ner. Did anyone look or act strangely f"
“Not at all. My daughter Ethel had excused
herself, and left the dining-room before I came in.
She felt indisposed—headache, or something of
that sort, I believe. The others chatted, laughed,
and gossiped much as usual.”
“How long have these guests been under your
roof P”
“Two weeks.”
“Describe your guests. Who are they How
long have you known them f°
“Miss Leonard and Miss Rich are school friends
of my daughter; they were graduated together
in June. Frank Burrell is a Harvard chum of
Paul. They got through with college two years
ago. Mrs. Burrell is a life-long friend of both
my sister and myself. A widow and wealthy,
she's still a bit stingy and keeps a tight money-
rein on her son. Paul, who from time to time
has loaned him money, tells me this. Mr. Towne
is an old-time business partner of mine; he retired
rich a score of years ago. He and his family
live at Tuxedo, and that of course includes Miss
Towne, a girl of twenty. Lastly, Mr. Blake.
THE HOUSE PART1° 235
He belongs, as I’ve told you, to one of the oldest
of the noble families of Great Britain. He is
of a cadet branch, his grandfather having been
a second son.”
“Have you known him many years ”
“No years at all. I only made his acquaintance
when he came to the house a fortnight ago. He
is Paul’s friend rather than mine—Paul and young
Burrell have known him some time.”
“You don’t know how long f—or how they met
him P”
“Why, no. Still you can see by his appearance
that Mr. Blake is genuine. A man is so much
like a banknote, that one who has had experience
can instantly detect a counterfeit. As I tell you,
Mr. Blake is genuine; his looks, manners, con-
versation, exhaustive knowledge of England and
its noble families are proofs of it.”
“You speak almost with enthusiasm.”
“To be frank, while it has nothing to do with
the matter upon which I asked you to come down,
I have an idea that Mr. Blake may become a
member of my family. Ethel is plainly taken
with him, and he with her. It was love at first
sight. To be sure, nothing has been said; couldn't
have been, you know, in so short a time. But
I have seen the drift; and I shouldn't be surprised
if they made a match of it.”
236 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
“Neither Mr. Blake nor your daughter has
mentioned their tender interest to one another ?”
“Certainly not. As I’ve said, it would hardly
be delicate to do that so soon.”
Mr. Van Orth assumed an air, kindly superior
and instructive. Inspector Val, being of the herd,
could not—according to Mr. Van Orth—forestall
or foretell what should be the proprieties among
delicate folk of refinement and sensibility, such as
made up the nice circles wherein Mr. Van Orth
himself had social place.
“My daughter,” concluded Mr. Van Orth,
casually, “has not been visible for two days, being
captive in her rooms to a headache. Nothing
dangerous; Miss Leonard, Miss Rich, and Miss
Towne see her. They would tell me if she were
really ill.”
II
HON. BIDEFORD BLAKE.
NSPECTOR VAL took his quiet place among
I the guests at Orthoaks, pleasantly and
much unnoticed. He wore the easy, weary,
worthless, wornout air of “good society.” Be-
yond all he was very silent, and silence is ever
a mark of the well-bred. Silence has another
advantage; a talker learns nothing, it is he who
listens that improves in knowledge.
For all his drowsy manner of high breeding, one
who looked closely at Inspector Val might have
observed that the eyes, back of half-closed lids,
were exceedingly alert. By lunch time, on the
day after his arrival, he had every one about
him measured, or as Mr. Sorg would have said,
“counted up.”
Mrs. Hogeden-Hogeden was a shallow, good-
natured, coarse woman, of more than middle
weight and years. She had a deal of manner,
most of which was as plainly put on as her com-
plexion. Mrs. Hogeden-Hogeden's friend, Mrs.
Burrell, inane, close, suspicious, gave one an im-
pression of unimportance. In all things she was
237
238 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
narrowly conventional. Mr. Towne appeared a
pokerish, gray man, versed in the social proprieties
and deep in nothing else. His daughter, Miss
Towne, of a chalk and water brood, emulated
her parent, and clung as closely to the proprieties
as ever did drowning man to planks. The Misses
Rich and Leonard were apple-faced young ladies,
elastic as rubber balls, who bounded vivaciously
about, to the distress of the proper Miss Towne.
When they talked, they went wild over golf and
tennis and basket ball, in which latter species
of violence, they had won fame at their school.
In the first stages, Inspector Val brushed these
six aside as not included in his field of inquiry.
None of them had taken the red diamond. w
Also he did the same with Paul Van Orth.
Young Van Orth was about twenty-three, of a
light, happy disposition. He laughed much, and
thought little—being altogether a pronounced
specimen of those rich, useless, idle young fellows,
among whom his father's money and misguided
social hankerings had succeeded in installing him.
Surely, he had not stolen the diamond. He was
not the sort; besides, he lacked utterly in motive,
since the elder Van Orth made a merit of placing
no limit on his expenditures. Money was as free
to him as air.
Frank Burrell, Paul's friend, differed from his
HON. BIDEFORD BLAKE 230
chum. His face, while no older and no wiser,
had a dissipated look—a face stained of sottish-
ness. Evidently, he had gone the pace, and been
diligent to sow wild oats. Eyes more yellow than
gray, he owned withal a hangdog manner, not good
to see. He was of a bad temper—querulous;
but gave in to Paul on points of trivial dispute.
The Honorable Bideford Blake was ten years
the senior of either Paul or young Burrell. He
had a thin face, dark and gypsy-like; hair and
eyes and mustache, blue-black. He spoke with a
languid drawl, and left one to guess whether he
or Mrs. Hogeden-Hogeden were the more affected.
His hands were long and slender, and, when he
thought no one watched, he was fond of consider-
ing them, back and palm, and all in a spirit of
satisfaction, as though they were his pet pride.
It was Mr. Blake's mouth that disturbed Inspector
Val. Under the droop of the blue-black mus-
tache, the lips showed thick, irregular, vulgar
—not at all the mouth patrician.
If there were one, when all had been reviewed,
who most divided the interest of Inspector Val
with Mr. Blake, it was Ethel Van Orth. Perhaps
the procession of his concern would have marched
off with the Honorable Blake in the lead, Ethel
next, and young Burrell crowding close behind.
He did not see Ethel on the evening of his arrival
240 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
at Orthoaks, but her headache was so much under
hand that she came down to breakfast in the
morning.
Ethel was of finer clay, and an intelligence better
moulded, than either her brother or father. She
seemed sad and out of spirit; which may or may
not have been the left-over traces of that two days
of headache. She spoke little, advanced no topics
of conversation. Particularly, she never once
looked at Mr. Blake; which restraint did not set
well—so argued Inspector Val—with the elder
Van Orth's theory, that a budding love was
springing up between the pair. Mr. Blake, in a
pleasantly careless way, addressed her more than
once She never looked up, and answered in one
syllable.
Inspector Val, after being at Orthoaks twenty-
four hours, made the following report—it was a
mental one—to himself. Fact first: The red
diamond was stolen. Fact second: It was stolen
by either young Burrell or Mr. Blake. Fact
third: Ethel knows something about it, and that
something is breaking her heart.
In arriving at these conclusions, he did not
overlook old Roger. He made up to the old fellow,
and had a brief chat about wines. When he was
through, he was willing to join with Mr. Van
Orth, that in any search he might make for the
HON, BIDEFORD BLAKE 24.I
felon, the ancient butler need not be considered.
No; the crime lay between Mr. Blake and young
Burrell, and Ethel knew enough of the business
to disturb her to the depths. Accepting the
elder Van Orth's theory of a love interest on her
part, her disturbance would point to Mr. Blake
rather than young Burrell as the thief.
Inspector Val, as he sat alone in his room,
cudgelled his memory as to the face of Mr. Blake.
In the end he was sure that he had never before
seen him. It was his trade to remember a face;
certainly he should not have forgotten the olive
skin, crow-colored hair, and coarse mouth of
Mr. Blake, if that personage had ever crossed his
path.
The next day, taking advantage of a saddle
party—in which Ethel was too much out of sorts
to join—Inspector Val mailed a note to Mr. Sorg.
It had its effect. The morning following, Mr.
Van Orth was exhibiting his famous show horse,
Rochester. The groom was trotting the animal
up and down, tandem, and everybody, to give
joy to Mr. Van Orth, was out viewing the spectacle,
and murmuring encomiums of the wondrous Roch-
ester. Some of the farmer people of the neigh-
hood left their fields to look on.
About this time a thick rough man came
trudging along, and having, as would appear, a
242 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
love for fine horse flesh, paused among the gazing
farmers. The rough man, however, looked quite
as often at Mr. Blake as at the renowned Rochester.
Finally, catching a glimpse of Inspector Val,
who stood back from the others, the rough man
shook his head. As though satisfied, he passed
on and disappeared. The rough one was Mr.
Sorg; that head-shake meant that he, like his
chief, had never before clapped eyes on Mr.
Blake.
The latter noble personage had a fancy; he
was tireless to shoot. There was no game about
Orthoaks; but there were clay pigeons and traps.
At these Mr. Blake kept excessively busy, and
devoted a half hour towards sundown every after-
noon to smashing clay pigeons, right and left.
“You should see me at pheasants on our pre-
serves in Sussex, Mr. Van Orth; you really should!”
cried Mr. Blake.
Mr. Van Orth flushed in a pleased way, and
declared that he should be delighted.
Paul and young Burrell burned quite as much
powder as Mr. Blake, but they did not kill as many
clay birds. Now and then the trio shot a sweep-
stakes; when they did it was won by Mr. Blake.
From morn till night, and now and then long
into the night, Mr. Blake was under the sleepless
eye and ear of Inspector Val; and yet the latter
HON. BIDEFORD BLAKE 243
took nothing for his vigilance. Never once, by
word or look, did that aristocrat indicate any
nearness to or knowledge of the stolen red diamond.
It was the fifth afternoon of Inspector Val’s
stay at Orthoaks. He was walking idly about the
lawn to the rear of the house. As might be guessed,
he had the missing red diamond decidedly on his
slope of thought. Not a foot of headway had he
made. Morally certain of the guilt of Mr. Blake,
it was no more than surmise plus instinct; he hadn’t
a shadow of evidence.
Ethel, too, was as baffling as ever. Never once
did she relax her attitude of cold aversion to Mr.
Blake. Also, as though to protect her conduct
from inference, she continued conveniently ill,
and fell a prey to a succession of headaches, that
carried her off to her room on every occasion when
she might have been left alone with Mr. Blake.
She avoided the man; and yet she preferred that
no one observe it. Her father took note of it,
however, and spoke of her conduct to Inspector
Val. All he said was:
“I can’t understand it.”
There was not much to be gained from that;
whereupon Inspector Val made no comment, pro
or con, but let Mr. Van Orth's inability to under-
stand his daughter take its ignorant place with
those thousands of other things which Mr. Van
244 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
Orth could not understand. That gentleman did
not suspect it, but he had acquired considerable
fame all based upon what he failed to understand.
Mr. Van Orth began to build up a feeling, born
of nothing except his loss, that young Burrell had
stolen his red diamond. This view he gave to
Inspector Val; the latter gentleman received it,
looked wise, kept quiet, and told Mr. Van Orth
that he was watching young Burrell, which was
true.
Inspector Val, walking on the shady lawn, was
altogether by himself, the three gun enthusiasts
being a quarter of a mile away at the traps. The
dull boom! boom! boom! of their cannonading
came floating up on the stiff breeze. The elder
Van Orth had gone across to the house of his
farmer, to give orders about pasturage, while the
ladies, young and middle-aged, were in their
rooms involved in a slow embellishment of their
dainty selves for dinner, which ceremony was yet
two hours away. And so, Inspector Val was all
alone with his ruminations; which were not pleas-
ant since they were not profitable.
It had been a sultry afternoon, but the breeze
springing up promised coolness. The better to
have advantage of it, the Orthoaks doors and
windows had been thrown wide open. Suddenly,
a door on the second floor slammed; Inspector
HON. BIDEFORD BLAKE 245
Val looked up. As he did so, a linen collar, full
of boomerang uncertainties as to flight, came
circling through the air and fell near his feet. The
puff that slammed the door, had blown it off a
dressing-table and out of the open window. The
room it came from was the room of Mr. Blake.
Inspector Val picked the collar up. There
was “B.B.” printed in ink on the inside; that
should stand for “Bideford Blake.” Evidently,
there was something more than “B.B.”; for,
following a first sharp glance, he rolled the collar
into as small a compass as might be, and put it
in his pocket. Later, he rode over to Hempstead,
and this time it was the collar that went per post
to Mr. Sorg.
The evening was not to pass without giving
Inspector Val a moderate glimpse into the kind and
sort of Mr. Blake, a glimpse that much confirmed
those red diamond beliefs which he had formulated
in the noble one’s disfavor. In the earlier hours
he drove over to the post-office with Mr. Van Orth,
who wanted to talk about the lost red diamond,
and discover what he had learned. This curiosity
of his host, he was driven to put off. He was not
ready to report, he said; he would perhaps have
news in a week. Mr. Van Orth received his put-
off with patient philosophy, and talked of some-
thing else. It was toward nine of the clock when
246 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
they got back. Inspector Val sat smoking by the
open window of the library, when Paul came in.
“Don’t say anything,” said Paul, in a low half-
merry tone, “because we don’t want the governor
to know. If you'd like to make a fourth in a quiet
game of poker, come up to my room at eleven.
The limit won’t be high; there’ll be Mr. Blake,
and Frank and I.”
Inspector Val said he would come. “But no
high play, mind!” he added.
“You can stand a fifty-dollar limit, I suppose f"
returned Paul, a little dubiously. He didn’t know
the silent Mr. Bloss of San Francisco very well.
“Fifty dollars That is what I should have
proposed.” -
Paul cheered up at this, and explained that these
little games were kept secret from the elder Van
Orth, who frowned upon gambling.
“And at the same time,” commented the son
reproachfully, “he, himself, goes lumbering into
the stock market up to the hub.”
At sharp eleven the little party of four met in
Paul’s room. Mr. Blake was so good as to act as
“banker,” and the others bought chips from him.
Paul purchased three thousand dollars worth,
giving his check; young Burrell and Inspector
Val were more moderate.
It turned out rather a sleepy game after all, and
HON. BIDEFORD BLAKE 2.47
Inspector Val was beginning to wish he had missed
it. There was nothing to be learned; he might
better have been in bed. In that he was wrong.
Sitting opposite Mr. Blake, and affecting a mighty
ignorance of cards, he was suddenly gratified by
the sight of that gentleman “fixing up a hand.”
He half closed his eyes and watched. Mr. Blake's
work was fairly clean; he was compelled to admire
it. With such card-dullards as Paul and young
Burrell, it might have been much coarser and
gone unchallenged.
Inspector Val followed the deal with stealthy
eye. There were two good hands given out, one
to young Burrell, one to Paul. From the manner
in which the two drew cards, he was certain that
young Burrell had been given the stronger hand.
His own was worthless as was also Mr. Blake's;
they stayed out.
Inspector Val lay back, and mentally debated
the phenomenon, while young Burrell and Paul
began to bet. This is the way his thoughts ran.
Was young Burrell a confederate of Mr. Blake
Obviously, no. He was so raw, and withal so
much surprised and excited by his sudden luck
and the hopes he builded upon it, that his fingers
shook. As he picked up his chips to bet them,
they clattered in a disgracefully amateurish way.
What, then, was Mr. Blake's object? Why had
248 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
he not given himself the high hand, since he must
needs cheat f Remembering what plans that
gentleman might entertain of marrying into the
family, he could see reasons why Mr. Blake should
hesitate at personally fleecing Paul. This, how-
ever, did not help him to an explanation of how
and why Mr. Blake should help young Burrell
pillage him. Also, young Burrell’s lack of knowl-
edge of the transaction was the most puzzling
feature of the business!
While Inspector Val was turning these matters
in his mind, the industrious young gentlemen had
been piling up their stakes.
“This is too slow. Let’s take the limit off,”
cried Paul.
“Agreed!”
Mr. Blake made a feeble show of objecting.
However, as he said, since he was not playing
in that particular pot, of course he had no voice.
The limit off, the “raises” became fast and
strong. In the finish, with nearly eight thousand
dollars at bay, most of it represented by slips of
paper marking the sums they stood for, Paul
“called.” He recollected the close fist of the
maternal Burrell, and feared that to win too large
a sum from his chum, might get that young person
into trouble. Wherefore, he “called”; and laid
down four kings.
HON. BIDEFORD BLAKE 249
“Nothing but a straight flush would beat me,”
observed young Burrell, triumphantly, spreading
out four aces; “and I was sure, from your draw
of two cards, that you didn't have that.”
Paul took his loss much better than young
Burrell did his good fortune. The latter's glee
was extravagant beyond the gentlemanly thing.
But a damper came. As he raked in the little
fortune, he caught the black eyes of Mr. Blake
regarding him fixedly. They seemed almost to
speak.
“By the way, Mr. Blake,” said young Burrell,
half the happiness lost from his manner, “I might
as well square up that I. O. U.”
“Not necessary, old chap!” returned Mr. Blake,
carelessly.
None the less he took the paper mentioned from
his pocketbook. It was for thirty-eight hundred
dollars. Young Burrell told off the amount from
his winnings, and shoved it across to Mr. Blake.
“I’ll give you a check for those markers later,”
said Paul to Mr. Blake.
“No hurry, old man; no hurry!”
Inspector Val, leaning back with polite eyes
half closed, saying nothing, began to see why Mr.
Blake was ready, on his sole and lone suggestion,
to aid young Burrell plunder Paul.
It was Inspector Val’s deal. As he picked up
250 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
the cards, he suggested: “Isn't it getting a trifle
late Suppose we play this hand and quit.”
The motion found acceptance from Mr. Blake
and young Burrell. At that Paul was too polite
to object.
“Mr. Burrell will, doubtless, give you your
revenge some other night, Mr. Van Orth,”
observed Mr. Blake, consolingly.
Inspector Val dealt the cards with an elegant
clumsiness that said all things in his social favor.
On the draw he took three cards, as did young
Burrell. Their hands were weak and both passed
OUlt.
Mr. Blake and Paul had had better fortune; each
had drawn one card, and now manifested a readi-
ness to back their hands heavily.
“Since it’s the last,” said Paul, who was a gam-
bler blood and bone, “let’s chuck the limit, as
Frank and I did.” -
“My dear Van Orth,” expostulated the for-
bearing Mr. Blake, “you know I can’t refuse,
and you so deep a loser. But I must warn you
that I hold, through the kindness of our friend
across the way”—he bowed politely to Inspector
Val—“a very strong hand, one hard to beat. How-
ever, it shall be as you say: the limit's off.”
The betting mounted high above that record
pot just won by young Burrell, and full ten thous-
HON. BIDEFORD BLAKE 251
and dollars, or its penciled equivalent, cumbered
the table's center. It was then that Mr. Blake—
out of good nature, he said—decided to call.
“I’m afraid you’re beaten, old chap!” he cried.
“Aw'fly sorry, don't you know, but I hold those
four kings you had against Mr. Burrell; and four
kings were never known to lose twice in one night.”
“This time they do,” cried Paul, showing those
four aces that had been so profitable for young
Burrell. -
Mr. Blake did not accept his defeat with the
composure and noble phlegm that a patrician
should show. He said nothing; but his teeth
came together with a click, while his olive skin
faded to an unpleasant ivory hue. He shot a
look of suspicious fire at Inspector Val. That
great policeman’s face was as inscrutable as the
tides in their sources. Ever genteel, he betrayed
not a flicker of interest. The fire of the other’s
look glanced off his impassive surface, like moon-
shine off a field of ice. He smothered a delicate
yawn, shoved his chair back, and remarked:
“Quite a marvel, those hands! Quite a wonder
in their way, don’t you think, Mr. Blake *
Mr. Blake had again taken hold of himself,
and as well as he might confessed the miraculous
character of the hands.
The next morning Inspector Val made it a point
252 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
to get into talk with young Burrell, and spoke in
highest terms of Mr. Blake. He complimented
his manner, and the polite elevation of his tone.
“And his family,” he concluded, “is, I’m told,
one of the most nobly ancient in England.”
| Young Burrell assented, but explained that he was
not personally acquainted with Mr. Blake's family.
“I shall be,” he added, saving himself from a
fall in the good opinion of Inspector Val, who might
think small of him for not knowing the Blakes
of Sussex—“I shall be, as he and Paul and I are
going to England together in the spring. We
go first to Rio Janeiro in December. From there
we travel to London. Once in England, we shall
visit the Blakes. Mr. Blake has already ar-
ranged for that.” Young Burrell went on to
explain that his acquaintance with Mr. Blake had
had but a brief existence, less indeed than two
months. “We met on the boat coming over; Lord
Brook introduced me to him. Rather a costly
introduction at that; for I had such beastly luck,
you know. He won all my money—not much—
three hundred dollars, perhaps—and, when we
came ashore, he had my paper for thirty-eight
hundred. You saw me pay it. Wasn't it the
luckiest thing—me winning enough from Paul to
pay it off And wasn’t it queer how, in five min-
utes, Paul should win it all back from Blake *
HON. BIDEFORD BLAKE 253
Inspector Val consented amiably to the luck,
and the queerness of the two cases, and withdrew
to consider what should be the monetary results of
a two months’ cruise, on the part of a cool hand
like Mr. Blake, with a pair of adolescent addle-
pates, such as young Burrell and Paul.
That afternoon Inspector Val received a letter
from Mr. Sorg. It enclosed a photograph, which
he studied at some length.
“Taken, I should say, twelve years ago,” he
ruminated. “A perfect likeness!” Then turning
it over, and reading from its back: “Twelve
thousand and eighty-three.”
Inspector Val, after exhaustive debate with
himself in which every argument was measured,
had come to a big resolution. He had decided
to have a talk with Ethel. Having arrived at this
determination, he lay in wait to act upon it. The
opening came during trap-shooting time next day.
Mr. Van Orth, who was a finished agriculturist
in a dilettante way, had gone to the far end of
his domain overseeing certain farm work, that
would have gone forward just as well or better
without his presence. The three sportsmen, down
by the traps, were banging away at their birds of
clay. Mr. Towne had been seized upon by the
older ladies, to act as escort for them in a picnic
they had planned. They took with them Miss
254 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
Rich, Miss Leonard, and Miss Towne, Ethel re-
maining behind, on the threadbare plea of head-
ache.
Her reason, as Inspector Val construed it, was
really Mr. Blake, since that gentleman in the first
of it had said he would make one for the picnic.
He changed his mind, when Ethel gave notice
that she wouldn't go, and went back to clay pigeons
with young Burrell and Paul, as offering a livelier
and more congenial field. Thus it befell that, at
the hour named, no one was in the Van Orth house
save Ethel and Inspector Val. The latter, as he
loafed about the grounds, had glimpses of the
young lady, where she sat reading at her window.
Now it was that Inspector Val did an unprece-
dented deed, one without its rude fellow—perhaps
—in the annals of Meadowbrook’s best society.
He penciled a note, asking Ethel to see him at once
on a matter of importance to her father, and dis-
patched the same by the hand of old Roger. A
moment later, the young lady was on the back
veranda with Inspector Val, her face exhibiting
natural alarm.
“What is it, Mr. Bloss P’’
“Nothing terrifying, Miss Van Orth. It's
about the red diamond.”
“The red diamond ſ”
Ethel's face grew pale. Inspector Val watched
HON. BIDEFORD BLAKE 255
her keenly. Her manner would have told him
that she knew the full story of that loss. And yet
she, like the others, was supposed to think the
stolen gem safe in the pocket of Mr. Van Orth.
“Yes; the red diamond,” he repeated. “I
want you to tell me about it, please.”
“What—what is there to tell ?” she faltered.
“I don’t understand!”
“I’ll begin by giving you my confidence,” he
said. “It may help you give me yours. There
are people who hold that a woman should never
be trusted. I do not make that mistake. It
has been my experience that women are more
honest, more loyal, have more commonsense,
and guard a secret better than do men. Miss
Van Orth, I shall confide in you.”
The young lady stared in a disturbed pale-
faced way. Had Mr. Howard Bloss of San Fran-
cisco become suddenly insane
“As a first step,” he went on, “let me tell you
that I am an officer of the police; my name is
Inspector Val. The red diamond, as you know”
—here Ethel took herself in hand a trifle—“was
stolen, and I’ve been brought to Orthoaks by
your father to find it. Will you help both your
father and me by telling, in strictest confidence,
all you know of the loss I’m sure you can name
the one who took the diamond.”
256 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
Ethel was breathing deeply, looking the while
straight at Inspector Val, her expression bordering
on the tragic. For a round minute she remained
silently staring; then, with an effort, she found
her voice.
“I shall tell nothing.”
Inspector Val had foreseen the reply, and was
ready with a move in flank. He had observed
that old Roger—who had been with the Van Orths
since Ethel was born—was a favorite of the young
lady. With this in his thoughts, and assuming a
manner coldly professional, he said:
“It doesn’t much matter; I already know the
thief. It was the butler, Roger, who stole it;
he picked it off the floor, where it fell when your
father sought to save the candlestick I shall
arrest him at once.”
The abruptness of the proposal augmented
the horror of it. Ethel sprang to the rescue.
“You must not touch him!'” she cried. “The
old man knows nothing of the diamond'! It
was -’’ Ethel broke down and began to sob,
her face buried in her hands.
Inspector Val finished the sentence. “Mr.
Bideford Blake, you mean.” The girl sobbed on,
never looking up. “Come, Miss Van Orth, why
screen a scoundrel ? The thief is Mr. Blake.
Why screen him You do yourself, as well as
HON. BIDEFORD BLAKE 257
your father, a wrong. The man is beneath your
sympathy. A common criminal, it is within
hours that I saw him attempt to swindle your
brother out of thousands.”
Ethel looked up; gradually she was becoming
composed. “Promise me that you will let him
go!”
Inspector Val pursed his lips. “His prose-
cution will depend upon your father. Now let
me tell you how you came to know that Mr. Blake
stole the diamond; it may make our conversation
easier.” Ethel began to show a cooler interest.
“You saw him take it,” he went on. “Sitting in
the other drawing-room, and happening at the
time to be watching the reflection of Mr. Blake
in the old-fashioned mirror that hangs over the
ebony table, the transaction—in the mirror of
course—came off before your eyes.”
“You were not there.”
“No; but I’ve seen the rooms. Knowing—
and I gained this from your face—that you were
aware of the thief, I could readily surmise, by
examining the rooms, how you arrived at the knowl-
edge. You were watching Mr. Blake in the look-
ing-glass”—it was wonderful how Ethel's color
would mount at the mention of Mr. Blake—“ and
you saw him seize the diamond, which your father
tossed on the table at the time the candlestick fell.”
258 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
“It didn’t fall,” she interjected, faintly; “he
pulled it off the table.”
Being launched, Ethel told how, by means of the
mirror, she had been witness to the theft. The
candlestick had been placed near the end of the
table, on a chamois-skin mat. Just as the
diamond, after all had admired it, was given to
Mr. Van Orth, she saw Mr. Blake, who with
hands resting on the table was leaning forward,
give the mat a tug. In an instant the candlestick
went toppling, and as Mr. Van Orth and the others
sought to stay it, Mr. Blake, with a swift motion,
possessed himself of the diamond.
“My very heart stopped beating!” concluded
Ethel. “I couldn’t believe my eyes! Nor could
I decide what to do! I don’t know now what
to do!” This, with a sob. “Only he must not
be punished. Promise me that he shall go free.
But make him leave the house. I want to free
myself forever from the sight of him!”
III
THE LOON ON THE LAKE
NSPECTOR VAL urged Ethel to return to
her room; he wanted no one to see her tell-
tale cheeks and eyes. He assured her that,
to carry out her wishes toward Mr. Blake, it was
required that she breathe no word, not even to her
father, of what had passed. Ethel crept slowly
away, a bit broken, but wearing a look of relief
that was not in her face when the talk began.
She was, with the worst of it, glad the end was on
its way.
From the hour of the interview with Ethel,
Inspector Val became as a ghost haunting the
footsteps of Mr. Blake. Now he had identified
the thief, his whole care was to locate the lost
red diamond. Watch as he might, spy he ever
so sleeplessly, he could learn nothing. Probably,
the diamond was on the person of Mr. Blake.
But again, he might have tucked it away some-
where in hiding. Inspector Val feared to risk
an arrest. If Mr. Blake had buried the diamond
in some sly place, in brief if it were not found upon
im, an arrest would ruin all. One witness,
telling what she saw, or might imagine she saw,
259
260 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
reflected in a mirror, at a time when much con-
fusion prevailed, would never bring conviction
in the teeth of Mr. Blake's denial.
“And the court,” he argued, for he was versed
in ‘Greenleaf’s Evidence,” “won’t let us show
his past.”
Studying each waking moment to solve the
whereabouts of the red diamond, Inspector Val
kept constantly in the neighborhood of Mr. Blake.
The next evening, but one, after his conversation
with Ethel—who now had worse headaches than
ever, and stuck persistently to her own apart-
ment—he saw Mr. Blake go to the gun room.
The latter was by himself at the time, and ap-
peared to make a point of being alone. This fact,
and the hour of his visit to the gun room, placed
the affair among things strange. The gun room
itself, was a cubby-hole off the main hall. Here
it was that Paul kept his guns, and the cleaning
and loading paraphernalia that belonged with
them.
After Mr. Blake had entered, Inspector Val
waited a few minutes. Then, as his man did not
come out, he stole to the door with the tread of
a cat. The door had been left ajar by Mr. Blake,
that he might—so thought the busy-witted In-
spector Val—the better catch the approaching
footfall of any visitor.
THE LOON ON THE LAKE 261
As Inspector Val came silently up, he managed
a slender glimpse of Mr. Blake, through the crack
that showed between the jamb and the door, on
the hinge side. Mr. Blake seemed engaged in
loading shells for a shotgun; he was just taking
one out of the machine used for rimming or
crimping down the edge of the shell upon the wad.
He appeared to be in a hurry to be through with
his work, and turned towards the door more than
once as though fearful of being seen.
Inspector Val would have withdrawn, as catfoot
as he had come, but a flooring board creaked
under him. Fearing that Mr. Blake had heard
it, he stepped to the door and thrust it open, as
the best method of allaying suspicion. When he
walked in upon Mr. Blake—which he did in an
idle, careless way, as though engaged upon no
enterprise more weighty than a time-killing stroll
about the house—the Sussex gentleman was
clearly disconcerted. Still, he met his visitor
finely, and said in a bland tone:
“You surprised me! I was looking after my
shells for to-morrow's shoot. I’ve agreed to a
handicap of ten yards, and we're to shoot a
sweepstakes for five hundred dollars each.”
“How many birds f" asked Inspector Val,
pretending interest.
“Fifty.”
a62 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
“I shall assuredly see it.”
That night Inspector Val lay studying the
meaning of that visit to the gun room. It was
connected with the red diamond, of that he felt con-
vinced. For wakeful hours his mind revolved the
mystery of it. All at once a light broke. In the
suddenness of a conviction that he had solved the
problem, he sat bolt upright in bed. Then,
realizing how there was nothing to be accom-
plished at two in the morning, he sunk back on
his pillow and tried to sleep.
The next day Inspector Val went to the traps
with the others. He cheered the good shots,
deplored the bad shots, and gave such eclat to
the event that Paul expressed a wish he would
attend every day.
“We shoot much better,” said he, laughing,
“when there’s some outsider to admire us.”
While Inspector Val cheered the shooting, he
was no less sedulous to study Mr. Blake. The
day’s watching brought him naught. At the
close of the match—won by Mr. Blake, to be sure
—the party made ready to return to the house
and dress for dinner, he no wiser as to the lurking
place of that baffling red diamond than when they
Canne Out.
At that, his attention had been drawn to several
more or less trivial facts. Often a trivial fact
THE LOON ON THE LAKE 263
has to do with a great fact; and, acting on that
thought, he went tumbling these divers trivialities
about in his wits. These were what caused him
to don his thinking cap. Although the day was
warm, Mr. Blake stuck to his coat while shooting;
young Burrell and Paul were in their shirtsleeves.
Also, in the shooting trousers of all three there
were no pockets. Was it that Mr. Blake carried
in his coat pocket—having no trousers' pocket—
some treasure he must closely guard Was it
that which kept his coat on his back, during hot
work on a hot day ? He gazed at the coat en-
viously; he would have given a year’s pay for the
privilege of ransacking it, unknown to its owner.
Good detective work depends on taking advan-
tage of the unexpected, as does everything else in
life. The four had hardly left the traps when a
farm lad, working on the place, came up breath-
less.
“I say!” he sung out; “there’s a loon just come
squattering into the lake.”
Mr. Blake was eagerly alive in a moment.
“There's no game law in defence of loons,” he
said; “I’ve a mind to try a shot at it.”
“Come on then,” cried Paul. “Though let
me tell you a loon is no fool of a fowl to kill. It
can dive at the flash, and be under water before
the shot reaches it.”
264 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
Mr. Blake, as the quartette hurried toward the
lake, betrayed an intimate knowledge of loons;
too intimate, possibly, for an Englishman who had
been in the land of the loon less than a trio of
months. While reiterating Paul’s assertion, that
the loon could get under water before death in the
guise of duckshot reached it, he went on to ex-
plain: The loon would dive, yes; but, by main-
taining a smart fire, and thereby forcing the loon
to duck beneath the water the moment it came
up, it could be pumped out of breath. A time
would come when the loon couldn’t save itself.
Mr. Blake declared that he had, in that way,
more than once slain a loon with a shotgun. He
said that not one of them had lasted through the
fourteenth fire of his gun.
“About the tenth dive,” he explained, “they’ve
lost their breath utterly. Then they have no more
quickness or power of diving, than has a goose
or a duck.”
“But would he not fly f' asked young Burrell,
who was ignorant of loons.
“No!” vouchsafed Paul. “His wings are so
short and his body so big, that once he's settled
on a lake or pond for the night, as this one has,
he’ll rely wholly on diving. They’ve no brains
—the loons.”
All this was panted off as they pushed for the lake.
THE LOON ON THE LAKE 265
The lake, which had so suddenly become a
theater of interest, was no mean expanse of water.
If nature had scooped it out, the dimensions
might have been less lavish. But the lake was
a home-made lake, the digging and scraping
whereof had been planned, superintended, and
paid for by Mr. Van Orth. Since that gentleman
did all things handsomely, that is to say expen-
sively, the lake—roundly speaking—exhibited a
watery surface of full twenty acres.
As our eager sportsmen came down to the
pebbly shore, the loon's long dark body was made
out, swimming well in the center, and thirty rods
away.
“One can’t make him dive at that distance,”
said Mr. Blake, ruefully. It had been settled as
they came along that he should do the shooting.
At this, a bright idea seized Inspector Val,
who until then hadn’t warmed to the loon-killing
as had the others. There was a cranky, clinker-
built canoe floating at a little wharf.
“Jump into the canoe!” he cried. “I’ll paddle
you.” *
The suggestion of the canoe struck everybody
as feasible. No time was frittered away in dis-
cussion; Mr. Blake stepped into the bow, while
Inspector Val, grasping the paddle, took position
in the stern.
266 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTI PE
“Have you plenty of shells fº asked Inspector
Val.
“Mr. Blake patted the bulging pockets of that
interesting coat. “I filled my pockets as we came
down to the lake,” said he.
Inspector Val, an adept of the paddle, sent the
canoe briskly towards the middle of the lake.
“I’ll let him have a shot,” said Mr. Blake.
“By the way, I’ll wager you a hundred I get him
by the tenth fire.”
“Done!” cried Inspector Val.
Mr. Blake raised his gun and fired. With the
quickness of thought, the great bird vanished
under water. The duck shot spattered the place
where it had been a half-second after it disap-
peared.
As Mr. Blake discharged his gun, the cranky
craft was set a-rocking in an alarming way.
“Look out!” he cried, sitting down abruptly;
“you’ll have us over!”
“No fear,” returned Inspector Val.
Mr. Blake began casting his eyes about the wide
circle of the lake, in order to be sharp with his
second fire when the loon appeared. To win that
one-hundred-dollar wager, he must give the bird
no breathing space.
“Better take off your coat!” suddenly inter-
posed Inspector Val. “If we should capsize,
Bang! went Mr. Blake's second barrel. This time the canoe went keel up with a mighty splash.

THE LOON ON THE LAKE 267
with all those lead-filled shells in your pocket,
you'd go to the bottom like an anvil.”
There was so much of warning truth in the
notion, that for the first time that afternoon Mr.
Blake threw off his coat. Still he seemed to have
it cautiously in mind, for he placed it so as to
kneel upon it.
Inspector Val at the paddle took in this dis-
position of the coat. The next moment the loon's
dark head and pickaxe beak shot out of the water
not forty yards ahead. “Bang!” went Mr.
Blake's second barrel. This time, the faithless
canoe did more than rock and dip; it went keel
up with a mighty splash, and in an instant Mr.
Blake with his gun, and Inspector Val with his
paddle, were in the lake.
There was a prodigious splashing, and much
shouting of command and advice; Mr. Blake
at one end of the upturned boat, Inspector Val
at the other. At last they got her on her keel again.
The wrecked ones couldn’t talk of boarding
the cranky craft, since it was now full of water to
the gunwales. While they painfully progressed
shoreward, paddling with their free hands and
dragging the boat, young Burrell and Paul en-
couraged them with gales of laughter. Out in
the safe center of the lake, floated the unabashed
loon, the cause of it all.
268 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
Half way to the shore, a terrifying thought seized
on Mr. Blake. “My coat!” he screamed.
One would have thought his heart had been
suddenly aimed at with a knife. He had lost his
gun, but the loss didn’t appeal to him. It was
left for a coat to bring out that scream of horror.
“My coat!” he cried again.
“Here's your coat,” said Inspector Val, and he
held up the soaked garment. “I caught it as it
was going down.”
With an ejaculation of mixed uncertainty and
hope, Mr. Blake reached out his hand. They
were swimming on opposites of the canoe, each
with a hand on the gun-wale. Inspector Val
swung the much desired garment across to Mr.
Blake. That agitated gentleman clutched it,
and held it fast until they made the land.
Young Burrell and Paul met the soused pair
with scoff and jeer; to them the upset was a most
engaging episode. Inspector Val returned their
jests with a damp but satisfied smile, while Mr.
Blake, his face the seat of every anxious fear, paid
no heed.
“The gun is lost!” said Inspector Val.
“Never mind,” replied Paul, with a fresh burst
of laughter. “Speaking as the gun's proprietor,
I would lose twenty such Greeners, rather than
miss the fun of seeing you two ducked.”
THE LOON ON THE LAKE 269
Mr. Blake had been furtively exploring the
left-hand pocket of his recovered coat. It was full
of shells; these he took out one by one, while
alarm grew in his eyes. With the last shell, he
stopped short, the color gone from his face.
“I’ve lost something!” he exclaimed.
“Nothing of value, old chap, I hope,” replied
Paul.
Mr. Blake made no direct response, but glared
helplessly at the lake.
“What was it f° asked young Burrell.
Mr. Blake made a despairing gesture, while
continuing to gaze back at the lake, as though
considering a return. “Let it go!” he said at
last, his voice a faint gurgle.
“I say, old fellow,” spoke up Paul, “the wetting
has been too much for you. Let's hurry to the
house, and pour some brandy into you.”
Young Burrell and Paul seized each an arm,
and bore Mr. Blake along at a jogtrot. He made
no resistance, but gave himself helplessly into
their hands.
When Inspector Val came down, after changing
his wet clothes, old Roger brought him a letter
that had come by special messenger. It was,
like the former one with the photograph, from
Mr. Sorg. It must have borne a worth-while
word or two, for he read and re-read the single page.
aſo CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
“By the drive-gate in the woods!” he murmured,
quoting from the letter, “at ten to-night.” Then
he snarled his brows into a very network of thought.
At last he came to a determination: “I’ll not only
meet them, I’ll do better; I will give them their
man,” he muttered.
Mr. Blake, pleading illness as the result of his
ducking, took a solitary dinner in his room. In-
spector Val stood the wet experience better, and
was at dinner with the rest, politely languid and
impassive. Dinner over, the whole party repaired
to the back veranda; for, autumn though it was,
the night had become sultry and on the veranda
a little breeze was stirring. It was nine o’clock;
for dinner had been made late by the accident at
the lake.
Inspector Val was sitting apart from the others.
After a half hour had elapsed, he looked at his
watch, arose and sauntered into the house. Once
inside, he brisked up and took a straight course
for the room of Mr. Blake. First tapping at the
door, he pushed it open. Mr. Blake glanced up;
his face was ten years older, with hollow eye and
haggard cheek. He looked up inquiringly, and
with a kind of fear.
“Dress yourself!” said Inspector Val.
“Dress myself!”
“I shall tell you what you lost in the lake.”
THE LOON ON THE LAKE 271
The other sprang to his feet. “You have it *
Then, with a groan, as though he smelled calamity
in its approach, he fell back in his chair.
“Come!” commanded Inspector Val.
Like one enthralled, Mr. Blake rose. He threw
on a coat, for beyond that he was fully dressed.
Taking his arm, Inspector Valled him from the
house. The two went out by a door farthest from
the gay party on the rear veranda; no one was
aware of their departure. They turned down the
road to the right, the one still with detaining hand
upon the other's arm.
“What is it?” suddenly cried Mr. Blake, coming
to a halt.
Mr. Blake spoke as though emerging from a
sleep, and with the ghost of a snarl like the snarl
of a threatened dog.
Inspector Val’s resistless fingers urged him on.
“As far as the drive gate,” he said, pointing to the
gray stone posts where they showed against the
black shadow of the wood.
As the pair arrived at the gate, two dark figures
stepped into the road and checked their progress.
One was Mr. Sorg, the other a stranger.
“Here's your man,” said Inspector Val, ad-
dressing the stranger.
Mr. Blake was all life in a moment. “A
plant!” he screeched, and tried to tear himself free.
272 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
He was stayed by the iron arms of Mr. Sorg,
which closed round him with the hug of a bear.
Next, in the splinter of a second, the stranger had
snapped the irons on him.
“You’re wanted!” said the stranger, as though
Mr. Blake had put a question—“you’re wanted
for uttering counterfeit money.”
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said Inspector
Val, to the stranger and Mr. Sorg. “Since you’ve
got your party, I’ll return to Orthoaks. Good
evening, Mr. Blake; I’ll explain your abrupt
desertion of his hospitality to our host.”
IV
THE RED DIAMOND
I' was midnight, and Mr. Van Orth and In-
spector Val were alone in the library. The
former was hot with excitement.
“So you’ve learned something at last,” said
he. “I’d begun to lose all hope. Was it young
Burrell ?”
“No; it was not young Burrell; it was Mr.
Blake.”
“Mr. Blake! Impossible!”
Inspector Val held out what appeared to be the
loaded cartridge shell of a IO-gauge shotgun.
Mr. Van Orth took it into his hand mechanically.
“What riddle is this f" he cried. “Is it some
jest?”
“I never jest. Tear it open.”
“It’s monstrous heavy!” exclaimed Mr. Van
Orth, fumbling for his penknife.
“Naturally! You don’t suppose the thief would
put in a charge of powder, and run the risk of
firing away a forty thousand-dollar diamond P’’
Mr. Van Orth was so much unstrung by the
drift of the last remark, that Inspector Val dis-
273
274 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
sected the bogus cartridge for him. There, im-
bedded like a flame in the midst of the dark
leaden pellets, lay the stolen red diamond. Mr.
Van Orth took it into his shaking palm, where it
lay burning and flaring in the candlelight, like
live fire.
“My real success,” explained Inspector Val,
“began with a collar which the wind flung out of
the window.” Mr. Van Orth, while keeping his
eyes for the red recovered jewel, gave eager ear to
the story. “There was a Chinese laundry mark–
of itself a suspicious fact, when one remembers
that Mr. Blake was not many weeks out of Sussex,
where I do not think the Chinese laundries are
abundant. I sent the collar to Sorg. I was
sure that its last washtub was an American wash-
tub, and was curious to learn the name of what
local laundry had been favored by Mr. Blake.
Sorg took the collar to a Chinaman in Pell Street,
one whom I often call to my aid. He identified
the mark as the sign manual of a fellow Mongol,
with a laundry in Trenton. He went to Trenton
with Sorg. Through the Trenton laundryman
they located the residence—two back rooms—of
your Mr. Blake. With the aid of the local police,
Sorg was able to identify your Mr. Blake as one
Benjamin Barney, alias Trenton Barney, alias
Trenton Ben.”
‘THE RED DIAMOND 275
“Scandalous!” ejaculated Mr. Van Orth.
“This man, the Trenton police explained, had
been well educated, for he came of good people.
He had done time in the Trenton prison for
forgery. His term expired five years ago. Since
then he has been a member of a band of counter-
feiters, it being his part to pass the queer money
which the others made. While making Trenton
his home—if the lair of such a criminal can be
called a home—he was, in passing the queer money,
perpetually crossing the ocean. On the boats he
devoted himself to gambling with and fleecing
fools. He always played with counterfeit money.”
“Amazing!” From Mr. Van Orth.
“This Trenton Barney had been careful to
keep out of New York; and neither Sorg nor I had
ever seen him. The Trenton people, however,
had his picture in their gallery. Later, Sorg
found his photograph in Mulberry Street. We
got it twelve years ago, by exchange with the police
of Trenton. These facts Sorg sent me by letter,
together with the picture of your Mr. Blake.”
Inspector Val tossed the discolored photograph
across to Mr. Van Orth. There was no possi-
bility of doubt; it was the face of the spurious
Mr. Blake.
“Now,” continued Inspector Val, “having
found my man, the next question was to find the
276 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
diamond. I should say that, until the other
night, he carried it in his pocket. Then it oc-
curred to him that a safer method would be to
hide it in a cartridge. I followed him to the gun
room one evening, and the solution of what was
at first a puzzle came to me several hours later
as I lay in bed. He had hidden the diamond in
a cartridge. The later actions of your Mr. Blake
confirmed this theory, and on the day of the
sweepstakes I not only felt sure that the red dia-
mond was concealed in a cartridge, but that the
cartridge was in his coat. By good luck there
came the loon. My great purpose was to search
the coat; and at the same time, if by any chance
I was wrong, to avoid giving your Mr. Blake
notice of the search. I must get the diamond
before he identified me as coming from Mulberry
Street. Once he suspected me, the diamond
would be lost forever. You see that ?”
Mr. Van Orth nodded.
“Very well! In every move I must avoid dis-
covery by your friend. After all, the cartridge
might not be in the coat! I must ransack its
pockets then without his knowledge. You know
the story of the loon, and the accident on the lake.
I upset the canoe, first frightening your Mr. Blake
into taking off his coat. I had no trouble re-
trieving the coat, once the canoe was capsized,
THE RED DIAMOND 277
and running my hand through the pockets I found
the diamond. I had anticipated the shot-filled
shell, and understood the meaning of the triple
weight of that particular cartridge the moment I
held it in my fingers. I made the search while
we were spluttering in the water, keeping the canoe
between your Mr. Blake and me. When I was
through, I at first intended to let the coat sink to
the bottom, loaded as it was with a dozen cart-
ridges. On second thought, I decided to save
the coat, and let him discover his loss.”
“You tell me he’s not in the house *
“In tracing your Mr. Blake, Sorg learned that
he had been wanted for over a year on a charge
of uttering counterfeit money. Somehow the
secret service people had let him slip through their
fingers. Since he’s been almost constantly on
the ocean, with only short spaces on this side,
during which he lay very close and snug in Tren-
ton, they never succeeded in picking him up again.
It was Sorg who showed them where he was.
This evening, at the stone drive-gate near the woods
your Mr. Blake was arrested by a United States
Marshal. As we sit talking he is well on his way
to Philadelphia, where he will be tried. I think
you’ve seen and heard the very last of him; and
my advice, since you’ve recovered your red dia-
mond, is to forget him with all possible speed.”
278 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
Mr. Van Orth mused. “I can’t see,” said he,
“why he remained here after he stole the diamond.”
“Considering the diamond's sort, to dispose of
it was not going to be easy. Neither could he with
safety go about it at once. Besides, had he left
your house, and given up his plans for an ocean
cruise with Paul and young Burrell, you might
have suspected him as the thief. He thought of
all these contingencies. You see that it was safer
to remain. More than that, you should remember
how his theft of your diamond was, after all, only
an incident in his main campaign—the merest
work of a sudden suggestion born of opportunity.
His original design, the one thought that brought
him to Orthoaks and led him to describe himself
as of the English nobility, would be worth more
to him in dollars than was the diamond.”
“And what was his original design, pray ?”
“There were two strings to his bow. He
planned to marry your daughter, and give himself
a rich father-in-law—here was a goose to be
plucked at his leisure! Also, he schemed to rob
your son at cards. There you have his designs.
I shall leave you to say how much opposition he
would have encountered in following up his prec-
ious enterprises.”
“Poor Ethell” sighed Mr. Van Orth. “Do
you know, I begin to regard those headaches in a
THE RED DIAMOND 279
new light. I suspect she had begun to fear that
Mr.Blake was not what he should be. There was
her woman’s intuition for you!” concluded Mr.
Van Orth, triumphantly.
Inspector Val arose; it was now two o'clock in
the night.
“My work in Mulberry Street has gone behind,”
said he, with his hand on the door. “I shall
return to town on the seven o’clock train—five
hours from now. You will make what explanations
you choose to your guests. I might suggest some
fiction, but shall leave it all to you. Good night,
or rather good morning, Mr Van Orth.”
“The same to you, Inspector. You shall hear
from me; I must show my appreciation. To
tell the truth,”—and Mr. Van Orth’s voice
trembled—“I’m not sure but what, beyond the
recovery of my red diamond, you’ve saved my
daughter, and my son, too, from the toils of a
mighty villain.”
When the guests at Orthoaks gathered about
the breakfast table that morning, they were as-
tonished to find their muster abated by two.
Ethel, for the first time in days, had taken her
place at breakfast. She was pale, but calm. Her
coming down may have been the work of a note
old Roger brought her, which read:
“Mr. Blake will trouble you no more. I am
280 CONFESSIONS OF A DETECTIVE
safe in saying he will not again appear at Orthoaks.
Neither is he to be punished for the theft of the
red diamond, and your wish in that behalf will be
observed. As to your confidential conversation
with me—by which, I assure you I was much
honored—I have spoken no word of it to anyone.
If you think your father or brother should know,
I leave it for you to inform them. My counsel
is to let the story sleep. Let Mr. Blake, and all
that refers to him, slip forever from your mind.—
Inspector Val.”
[THE END.]
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