Final Proof

by Rodrigues Ottolengui

  “Ask Mr. Remington in,” said Mr. Barnes to his boy, and when that gentleman entered, before he could show surprise at finding a third party present, the detective said:

  “Mr. Mitchel, this is the gentleman whom I wish you to meet. Permit me to introduce to you Mr. Mortimer J. Goldie, better known to the sporting fraternity as G. J. Mortimer, the champion short-distance bicycle rider, who recently rode a mile in the phenomenal time of 1.36, on a three-lap track.”19

  As Mr. Barnes spoke, he gazed from one to the other of his companions, with a half-quizzical and wholly pleased expression on his face. Mr. Mitchel appeared much interested, but the newcomer was evidently greatly astonished. He looked blankly at Mr. Barnes a moment, then dropped into a chair with the query:

  “How in the name of conscience did you find that out?”

  “That much was not very difficult,” replied the detective. “I can tell you much more; indeed, I can supply your whole past history, provided your memory has been sufficiently restored for you to recognize my facts as true.”

  Mr. Barnes looked at Mr. Mitchel, and winked one eye in a most suggestive manner, at which that gentleman burst out into hearty laughter, finally saying;

  “We may as well admit that we are beaten, Goldie. Mr. Barnes has been too much for us.”

  “But I want to know how he has done it,” persisted Mr. Goldie.

  “I have no doubt that Mr. Barnes will gratify you. Indeed, I am as curious as you are to know by what means he has arrived at his quick solution of the problem which we set for him.”

  “I will enlighten you as to detective methods with pleasure,” said Mr. Barnes. “Let me begin with the visit made to me by this gentleman two days ago. At the very outset his statement aroused my suspicion, though I did my best not to let him think so. He announced to me that he had lost his identity, and I promptly told him that his case was not uncommon. I said that in order that he might feel sure that I did not doubt his tale. But truly, his case, if he was telling the truth, was absolutely unique. Men have lost recollection of their past, and even have forgotten their names. But I have never before heard of a man who had forgotten his name, and at the same time knew that he had done so.”

  “A capital point, Mr. Barnes,” said Mr. Mitchel. “You were certainly shrewd to suspect fraud so early.”

  “Well, I cannot say that I suspected fraud so soon, but the story was so improbable that I could not believe it immediately. I therefore was what I might call ‘analytically attentive’ during the rest of the interview. The next point worth noting which came out was that, although he had forgotten himself, he had not forgotten New York, for he admitted having come to me without special guidance.”

  “I remember that,” interrupted Mr. Goldie, “and I think I even said to you at the time that it was significant.”

  “And I told you that it at least showed that you had been familiar with New York. This was better proven when you said that you would spend the day at Central Park, and when, after leaving here, you had no difficulty in finding your way thither.”

  “Do you mean to say that you had me followed? I made sure that no one was after me.”

  “Well, yes, you were followed,” said Mr. Barnes, with a smile. “I had a spy after you, and I followed you as far as the Park myself. But let me come to the other points in your interview and my deductions. You told me that you had registered as ‘M. J. G. Remington.’ This helped me considerably, as we shall see presently. A few minutes later you took out your watch, and in that little mirror over my desk, which I use occasionally when I turn my back upon a visitor, I noted that there was an inscription on the outside of the case. I turned and asked you something about the watch, when you hastily returned it to your pocket, with the remark that it was ‘an old family relic.’ Now can you explain how you could have known that, supposing that you had forgotten who you were?”

  “Neatly caught, Goldie,” laughed Mr. Mitchel. “You certainly made a mess of it there.”

  “It was an asinine slip,” said Mr. Goldie, laughing also.

  “Now, then,” continued Mr. Barnes, “you readily see that I had good reason for believing that you had not forgotten your name. On the contrary, I was positive that your name was a part of the inscription on the watch. What, then, could be your purpose in pretending otherwise? I did not discover that for some time. However, I decided to go ahead, and find you out if I could. Next I noted two things. Your coat opened once, so that I saw, pinned to your vest, a bicycle badge, which I recognized as the emblem of the League of American Wheelmen.”

  “Oh! Oh!” cried Mr. Mitchel. “Shame on you, Goldie, for a blunderer.”

  “I had entirely forgotten the badge,” said Mr. Goldie.

  “I also observed,” the detective went on, “little indentations on the sole of your shoe, as you had your legs crossed, which satisfied me that you were a rider even before I observed the badge. Now then, we come to the name, and the significance thereof. Had you really lost your memory, the choosing of a name when you registered at a hotel would have been a haphazard matter of no importance to me. But as soon as I decided that you were imposing upon me, I knew that your choice of a name had been a deliberate act of the mind; one from which deductions could be drawn.”

  “Ah; now we come to the interesting part,” said Mr. Mitchel. “I love to follow a detective when he uses his brains.”

  “The name as registered, and I examined the registry to make sure, was odd. Three initials are unusual. A man without memory, and therefore not quite sound mentally, would hardly have chosen so many. Then why had it been done in this instance? What more natural than that these initials represented the true name? In assuming an alias, it is the most common method to transpose the real name in some way. At least it was a working hypothesis. Then the last name might be very significant. ‘Remington.’ The Remingtons make guns, sewing-machines, typewriters, and bicycles. Now, this man was a bicycle rider, I was sure. If he chose his own initials as a part of the alias, it was possible that he selected ‘Remington’ because it was familiar to him. I even imagined that he might be an agent for Remington bicycles, and I had arrived at that point during our interview, when I advised him not to buy anything until his identity was restored. But I was sure of my quarry when I stole a handkerchief from him at the Park, and found the initials ‘M. J. G.’ upon the same.”

  “Marked linen on your person!” exclaimed Mr. Mitchel. “Worse and worse! We’ll never make a successful criminal of you, Goldie.”

  “Perhaps not. I shan’t cry over it.”

  “I felt sure of my success by this time,” continued Mr. Barnes, “yet at the very next step I was balked. I looked over a list of L. A. W. members and could not find a name to fit my initials, which shows, as you will see presently, that, as I may say, ‘too many clues spoil the broth.’ Without the handkerchief I would have done better. Next I secured a catalogue of the Remingtons, which gave a list of their authorized agents, and again I failed. Returning to my office I received information from my spy, sent in by messenger, which promised to open a way for me. He had followed you about, Mr. Goldie, and I must say you played your part very well, so far as avoiding acquaintances is concerned. But at last you went to a public telephone, and called up some one. My man saw the importance of discovering to whom you had spoken, and bribed the telephone attendant to give him the information. All that he learned, however, was that you had spoken to the public station at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. My spy thought that this was inconsequent, but it proved to me at once that there was collusion, and that your man must have been at the other station by previous appointment. As that was at noon, a few minutes before the same hour on the following day, that is to say, yesterday, I went to the Fifth Avenue Hotel telephone and secreted myself in the middle compartment, hoping to hear what your partner might say to you. I failed in this, as the boxes are too well made to permit sound to pass from one to the o
ther; but imagine my gratification to see Mr. Mitchel himself go into the box.”

  “And why?” asked Mr. Mitchel.

  “Why, as soon as I saw you, I comprehended the whole scheme. It was you who had concocted the little diversion to test my ability. Thus, at last, I understood the reason for the pretended loss of identity. With the knowledge that you were in it, I was more than ever determined to get at the facts. Knowing that you were out, I hastened to your house, hoping for a chat with little Miss Rose, as the most likely member of your family to get information from.”

  “Oh, fie! Mr. Barnes,” said Mr. Mitchel; “to play upon the innocence of childhood! I am ashamed of you!”

  “‘All’s fair,’ etc. Well, I succeeded. I found Mr. Goldie’s bicycle in your hallway, and, as I suspected, it was a Remington. I took the number and hurried down to the agency, where I readily discovered that wheel No. 5086 is ridden by G. J. Mortimer, one of their regular racing team. I also learned that Mortimer’s private name is Mortimer J. Goldie. I was much pleased at this, because it showed how good my reasoning had been about the alias, for you observe that the racing name is merely a transposition of the family name. The watch, of course, is a prize, and the inscription would have proved that you were imposing upon me, Mr. Goldie, had you permitted me to see it.”

  “Of course; that was why I put it back in my pocket.”

  “I said just now,” said Mr. Barnes, “that without the stolen handkerchief I would have done better. Having it, when I looked over the L. A. W. list I went through the ‘G’s’ only. Without it, I should have looked through the ‘G’s,’ ‘J’s,’ and ‘M’s,’ not knowing how the letters may have been transposed. In that case I should have found ‘G. J. Mortimer,’ and the initials would have proved that I was on the right track.”

  “You have done well, Mr. Barnes,” said Mr. Mitchel. “I asked Goldie to play the part of a nameless man for a few days, to have some fun with you. But you have had fun with us, it seems. Though, I am conceited enough to say, that had it been possible for me to play the principal part, you would not have pierced my identity so soon.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Mr. Barnes. “We are both of us a little egotistical, I fear.”

  “Undoubtedly. Still, if I ever set another trap for you, I will assign myself the chief rôle.”

  “Nothing would please me better,” said Mr. Barnes. “But, gentlemen, as you have lost in this little game, it seems to me that some one owes me a dinner, at least.”

  “I’ll stand the expense with pleasure,” said Mr. Mitchel.

  “Not at all,” interrupted Mr. Goldie. “It was through my blundering that we lost, and I’ll pay the piper.”

  “Settle it between you,” cried Mr. Barnes. “But let us walk on. I am getting hungry.”

  Whereupon they adjourned to Delmonico’s.

  17 This story first appeared in The Idler in January 1895.

  18 The “boy in buttons” or simply “buttons” was a liveried page boy, commonly employed in many upper-class households to answer the door and run errands. The phrase seems to have originated in England and migrated to Gilded Age New York, where servants teemed in the mansions of the wealthy.

  19 In 1899, “Mile-a-Minute” Murphy, whose real name was Charles Minthorn Murphy (1870–1950) rode his bicycle in the draft of a railroad train for one mile in 57.8 seconds. Mortimer’s speed is theoretically possible but very unlikely—in 2020, the world record for a male cyclist for 1km from a standing start is 56 seconds, and theoretically, if that rider were able to sustain that speed for a mile, he would require 90 seconds.

  IV: The Montezuma Emerald20

  “Is the Inspector in?”

  Mr. Barnes immediately recognized the voice, and turned to greet the speaker. The man was Mr. Leroy Mitchel’s English valet. Contrary to all precedent and tradition, he did not speak in cockney dialect, not even stumbling over the proper distribution of the letter “h” throughout his vocabulary. That he was English, however, was apparent to the ear, because of a certain rather attractive accent, peculiar to his native island, and to the eye because of a deferential politeness of manner, too seldom observed in American servants. He also always called Mr. Barnes “Inspector,” oblivious of the fact that he was not a member of the regular police, and mindful only of the English application of the word to detectives.

  “Step right in, Williams,” said Mr. Barnes. “What is the trouble?”

  “I don’t rightly know, Inspector,” said Williams. “Won’t you let me speak to you alone? It’s about the master.”

  “Certainly. Come into my private room.” He led the way and Williams followed, remaining standing, although Mr. Barnes waved his hand towards a chair as he seated himself in his usual place at his desk. “Now then,” continued the detective, “what’s wrong? Nothing serious I hope?”

  “I hope not, sir, indeed. But the master’s disappeared.”

  “Disappeared, has he.” Mr. Barnes smiled slightly. “Now Williams, what do you mean by that? You did not see him vanish, eh?”

  “No, sir, of course not. If you’ll excuse my presumption, Inspector, I don’t think this is a joke, sir, and you’re laughing.”

  “All right, Williams,” answered Mr. Barnes, assuming a more serious tone. “I will give your tale my sober consideration. Proceed.”

  “Well, I hardly know where to begin, Inspector. But I’ll just give you the facts, without any unnecessary opinions of my own.”

  Williams rather prided himself upon his ability to tell what he called “a straight story.” He placed his hat on a chair, and, standing behind it, with one foot resting on a rung, checked off the points of his narrative, as he made them, by tapping the palm of one hand with the index finger of the other.

  “To begin then,” said he. “Mrs. Mitchel and Miss Rose sailed for England, Wednesday morning of last week. That same night, quite unexpected, the master says to me, says he, ‘Williams, I think you have a young woman you’re sweet on down at Newport?’ ‘Well, sir,’ says I, ‘I do know a person as answers that description,’ though I must say to you, Inspector, that how he ever came to know it beats me. But that’s aside, and digression is not my habit. ‘Well, Williams,’ the master went on, ‘I shan’t need you for the rest of this week, and if you’d like to take a trip to the seashore, I shan’t mind standing the expense, and letting you go.’ Of course, I thanked him very much, and I went, promising to be back on Monday morning as directed. And I kept my word, Inspector; though it was a hard wrench to leave the young person last Sunday in time to catch the boat; the moon being bright and everything most propitious for a stroll, it being her Sunday off, and all that. But, as I said, I kept my word, and was up to the house Monday morning only a little after seven, the boat having got in at six. I was a little surprised to find that the master was not at home, but then it struck me as how he must have gone out of town over Sunday, and I looked for him to be in for dinner. But he did not come to dinner, nor at all that night. Still, I did not worry about it. It was the master’s privilege, to stay away as long as he liked. Only I could not help thinking I might just as well have had that stroll in the moonlight, Sunday night. But when all Tuesday and Tuesday night went by, and no word from the master, I must confess that I got uneasy; and now here’s Wednesday noon, and no news; so I just took the liberty to come down and ask your opinion in the matter, seeing as how you are a particular friend of the family, and an Inspector to boot.”

  “Really, Williams,” said Mr. Barnes, “all I see in your story is that Mr. Mitchel, contemplating a little trip off somewhere with friends, let you go away. He expected to be back by Monday, but, enjoying himself, has remained longer.”

  “I hope that’s all, sir, and I’ve tried to think so. But this morning I made a few investigations of my own, and I’m bound to say what I found don’t fit that theory.”

  “Ah, you have some more facts. What are
they?”

  “One of them is this cablegram that I found only this morning under a book on the table in the library.” He handed a blue paper to Mr. Barnes, who took it and read the following, on a cable blank:

  “Emerald. Danger. Await letter.”

  For the first time during the interview Mr. Barnes’s face assumed a really serious expression. He studied the despatch silently for a full minute, and then, without raising his eyes, said:

  “What else?”

  “Well, Inspector, I don’t know that this has anything to do with the affair, but the master had a curious sort of jacket, made of steel links, so tight and so closely put together, that I’ve often wondered what it was for. Once I made so bold as to ask him, and he said, said he, ‘Williams, if I had an enemy, it would be a good idea to wear that, because it would stop a bullet or a knife.’ Then he laughed, and went on: ‘Of course, I shan’t need it for myself. I bought it when I was abroad once, merely as a curiosity.’ Now, Inspector, that jacket’s disappeared also.”

  “Are you quite sure?”

  “I’ve looked from dining-room to garret for it. The master’s derringer is missing, too. It’s a mighty small affair. Could be held in the hand without being noticed, but it carries a nasty-looking ball.”

  “Very well, Williams, there may be something in your story. I’ll look into the matter at once. Meanwhile, go home, and stay there so that I may find you if I want you.”

  “Yes, sir; I thank you for taking it up. It takes a load off my mind to know you’re in charge, Inspector. If there’s harm come to the master, I’m sure you’ll track the party down. Good morning, sir.”

  “Good morning, Williams.”

  After the departure of Williams, the detective sat still for several minutes, lost in thought. He was weighing two ideas. He seemed still to hear the words which Mr. Mitchel had uttered after his success in unravelling the mystery of Mr. Goldie’s lost identity. “Next time I will assign myself the chief rôle,” or words to that effect, Mr. Mitchel had said. Was this disappearance a new riddle for Mr. Barnes to solve? If so, of course he would undertake it, as a sort of challenge which his professional pride could not reject. On the other hand, the cable despatch and the missing coat of mail might portend ominously. The detective felt that Mr. Mitchel was somewhat in the position of the fabled boy who cried “Wolf!” so often that, when at last the wolf really appeared, no assistance was sent to him. Only Mr. Barnes decided that he must chase the “wolf,” whether it be real or imaginary. He wished, though, that he knew which.