The Big Book of Female Detectives
Page 192
“Where is Madame Sara?” inquired Vandeleur, in a peremptory voice.
Rebecca Curt shrugged her shoulders.
“Has she gone down? Is she in the ball-room? Speak!” said Vandeleur.
The nurse gave another shrug.
“I only know that Achmed the Arabian rushed in here a few minutes ago,” was her answer. “He was excited. He said something to Madame. I think he had been listening—eavesdropping, you call it. Madame was convulsed with rage. She thrust a few things together and she’s gone. Perhaps you can catch her.”
Vandeleur’s face turned white.
“I’ll have a try,” he said. “Don’t keep me, Druce.”
He rushed away. I don’t know what immediate steps he took, but he did not return to Rowland’s Folly. Neither was Madame Sara captured.
But notwithstanding her escape and her meditated crime, notwithstanding little Antonia’s hour of terror, the ball went on merrily, and the bride-elect opened it with her future husband. On her fair neck gleamed the pearls, lovely in their soft lustre. What she told Rowland was never known; how he took the news is a secret between Antonia and himself. But one thing is certain: no one was more gallant in his conduct, more ardent in his glances of love, than was the master of Rowland’s Folly that night. They were married on the day fixed, and Madame Sara was defeated.
BAD GIRL: MRS. HENRIETTE VAN RAFFLES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE CARNEGIE LIBRARY
John Kendrick Bangs
ONE OF THE MOST POPULAR American humorists of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, John Kendrick Bangs (1862–1922) satirized virtually every living writer (and some not so living), but always in a good-natured way, eschewing the nastiness brought to that particular literary form by many other satirists, whether because of jealousy, sheer meanness, or because it’s easier to laugh at an artist than to laugh with him.
Bangs skillfully and prolifically mined the extraordinary popularity of Sherlock Holmes with stories in numerous newspapers and magazines, collecting his burlesques in such books as The Pursuit of the House-Boat (1897), in which Holmes finds himself in Hades with other notables of the time; The Dreamers: A Club (1899); The Enchanted Type-Writer (1899); Potted Fiction (1908); and Shylock Homes: His Posthumous Memoirs, stories that had been syndicated in American newspapers in 1903 under the title Adventures of Shylock Homes but not collected until a limited edition was published in 1973. In addition to his success with the world’s greatest detective, Bangs also brought the world’s greatest jewel thief to his typewriter to produce R. Holmes & Co. (1906), introducing the son of Sherlock Holmes, who also happens to be the grandson of A. J. Raffles—if we are to believe all the character says.
“The Adventure of the Carnegie Library” was originally published in Mrs. Raffles (New York, Harper & Brothers, 1905).
The Adventure of the Carnegie Library
JOHN KENDRICK BANGS
“MERCIFUL MIDAS, BUNNY,” said Henriette one morning as I was removing the breakfast-tray from her apartment. “Did you see the extent of Mr. Carnegie’s benefactions in the published list this morning?”
“I have not received my paper yet,” said I. “Moreover, I doubt if it will contain any reference to such matters when it does come. You know I read only the London Times, Mrs. Van Raffles. I haven’t been able to go the American newspapers.”
“More fool you, then, Bunny,” laughed my mistress. “Any man who wants to pursue crime as a polite diversion and does not read the American newspapers fails to avail himself of one of the most potent instruments for the attainment of the highest artistic results. You cannot pick up a newspaper in any part of the land without discovering somewhere in its columns some reference to a new variety of house-breaking, some new and highly artistic method of writing another man’s autograph so that when appended to a check and presented at his bank it will bear the closest scrutiny to which the paying-teller will subject it, some truly Napoleonic method of entirely novel design for the sudden parting of the rich from their possessions. Any university which attempted to add a School of Peculation to its curriculum and ignored the daily papers as a positive source of inspiration to the highest artistry in the profession would fail as ignobly as though it should forget to teach the fundamental principles of high finance.”
“I was not aware of their proficiency in that direction,” said I.
“You never will get on, Bunny,” sighed Henriette, “because you are not quick to seize opportunities that lie directly under your nose. How do you suppose I first learned of all this graft at Newport? Why, by reading the newspaper accounts of their jewels in the Sunday and daily newspapers. How do I know that if I want to sand-bag Mr. Rockerbilt and rifle his pockets all I have to do is to station myself outside the Crackerbaker Club any dark opera night after twelve and catch him on his way home with his fortune sticking out all over him? Because the newspapers tell me that he is a regular habitué of the Crackerbaker and plays bridge there every night after the opera. How do I know just how to walk from my hall bedroom in my little East Side tenement up Fifth Avenue into Mrs. Gaster’s dining-room, where she has a million in plate on her buffet, with my eyes shut, without fear of stumbling over a step or a chair or even a footstool? Because the newspapers have so repeatedly printed diagrams of the interior of the lady’s residence that its halls, passages, doorways, exits, twists, turns, and culs-de-sac are indelibly engraved upon my mind. How did I acquire my wonderful knowledge of the exact number of pearls, rubies, diamonds, opals, tiaras, bracelets, necklaces, stomachers, and other gorgeous jewels now in the possession of the smart set? Only by an assiduous devotion to the contents of the daily newspapers in their reports of the doings of the socially elect. I have a scrap-book, Bunny, that has been two years in the making, and there hasn’t been a novel burglary reported in all that time that is not recorded in my book, not a gem that has appeared at the opera, the theatre, the Charity Ball, the Horse Show, or a monkey dinner that has not been duly noted in this vade-mecum of mine, fully described and in a sense located. If it wasn’t for that knowledge I could not hope for success any more than you could if you went hunting mountain-lions in the Desert of Sahara, or tried to lure speckled-trout from the depths of an empty goldfish globe.”
“I see,” said I, meekly. “I have missed a great opportunity. I will subscribe to the Tribune and Evening Post right away.”
I have never understood why Henriette greeted this observation with a peal of silvery laughter that fairly made the welkin ring. All I know is that it so irritated me that I left the room to keep from making a retort that might seriously have disturbed our friendship. Later in the day, Mrs. Van Raffles rang for me and I attended upon her orders.
“Bunny,” said she, “I’ve made up my mind to it—I must have a Carnegie library, that is all there is about it, and you must help. The iron-master has already spent thirty-nine million dollars on that sort of thing, and I don’t see why if other people can get ’em we can’t.”
“Possibly because we are not a city, town, or hamlet,” I suggested, for I had been looking over the daily papers since my morning’s talk with the lady, and had observed just who had been the beneficiaries of Mr. Carnegie’s benefactions. “He don’t give ’em to individuals, but to communities.”
“Of course not,” she responded, quickly. “But what is to prevent our becoming a municipality?”
My answer was an amazed silence, for frankly I could not for the life of me guess how we were to do any such thing.
“It’s the easiest thing in the world,” she continued. “All you have to do is to buy an abandoned farm on Long Island with a bleak sea-front, divide it up into corner lots, advertise the lots for sale on the instalment plan, elect your mayor, and Raffleshurst-by-the-Sea, swept by ocean breezes, fifteen cents from the Battery, is a living, breathing reality.”
“By the jumping Disraeli, Henriette, but you are a marvel
!” I cried, with enthusiasm. “But,” I added, my ardor cooling a little, “won’t it cost money?”
“About fifteen hundred dollars,” said Henriette. “I can win that at bridge in an hour.”
“Well,” said I, “you know you can command my services, Henriette. What shall I do?”
“Organize the city,” she replied. “Here is fifty dollars. That will do for a starter. Go down to Long Island, buy the farm, put up a few signs calling on people to own their own homes; advertise the place in big capital letters in the Sunday papers as likely to be the port of the future, consider yourself duly elected mayor, stop in at some photograph shop in New York on your way back and get a few dozen pictures of street scenes in Binghamton, Oberlin, Kalamazoo, and other well-populated cities, and then come back here for further instructions. Meanwhile I will work out the other details of the scheme.”
According to my habit I followed Henriette’s instructions to the letter. A farm of five hundred acres was secured within a week, the bleakest, coldest spot ever swept by ocean breezes anywhere. It cost six hundred dollars in cash, with immediate possession. Three days later, with the use of a ruler, I had mapped out about twelve thousand corner lots on the thing, and, thanks to my knack at draughtsmanship, had all ready for anybody’s inspection as fine a ground-plan of Raffleshurst-by-the-Sea as ever was got up by a land-booming company in this or any other country. I then secured the photographs desired by my mistress, advertised Raffleshurst in three Sunday newspapers to the tune of a half-page each, and returned to Newport. I flattered myself that the thing was well done, for on reading the advertisement nothing would do but that Henriette should visit the place in person. The ads were so phrased, she said, as to be irresistible.
“It’s fine, Bunny,” she cried, with an enthusiastic laugh as she gazed out over the broad acres of Raffleshurst and noted how well I had fulfilled her orders. “Under proper direction you are a most able workman. Nothing could be better. Nothing—absolutely nothing. And now for Mr. Carnegie.”
I still did not see how the thing was coming out, but such was my confidence in my leader that I had no misgivings.
“Here is a letter from Mrs. Gaster introducing the Hon. Henry Higginbotham, mayor of Raffleshurst, to Mr. Carnegie,” said Henriette. “You will call at once on the iron-master. Present this letter, keeping in mind of course that you are yourself the Hon. Henry Higginbotham. Show him these photographs of the City Hall at Binghamton, of the public park at Oberlin, the high school at Oswego, the battery walk at Charleston and other public improvements of various other cities, when he asks you what sort of a place Raffleshurst is; then frankly and fearlessly put in your application for a one-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar library. One picture—this beautiful photograph of the music-hall at the St. Louis Exhibition—you must seem to overlook always, only contrive matters so that he will inquire what it is. You must then modestly remark that it is nothing but a little two-hundred-thousand-dollar art gallery you have yourself presented to the town. See?”
“H’m—yes, I see,” said I. “But it is pretty risky business, Henriette. Suppose Mrs. Gaster asks for further information about Mayor Higginbotham? I think it was unwise of you to connect her with the enterprise.”
“Don’t bother about that, Bunny. I wrote that letter of introduction—I haven’t studied penmanship for nothing, you know. Mrs. Gaster will never know. So just put on your boldest front, remember your name, and don’t forget to be modest about your own two-hundred-thousand-dollar art gallery. That will inspire him, I think.”
It took me a week to get at the iron-master; but finally, thanks to Mrs. Gaster’s letter of introduction, I succeeded. Mr. Carnegie was, as always, in a most amiable frame of mind, and received me cordially, even when he discovered my real business with him.
* * *
—
“I hadn’t intended to give any more libraries this year,” he said, as he glanced over the pictures. “I am giving away lakes now,” he added. “If you wanted a lake, Mr. Higginbotham, I—”
“We have such a large water-front already, Mr. Carnegie,” said I, “and most of our residents are young married couples with children not over three and five. I am afraid they would regard a lake as a source of danger.”
“That’s a pretty playground,” he suggested, glancing at the Oberlin Park. “Somehow or other, it reminds me of something.”
I thought it quite likely, but, of course, I didn’t say so. I may be a fool but I have some tact.
“It’s at the far corner of the park that we propose to put the library if you are good enough to let us have it,” was all I ventured.
“H’m!” he mused. “Well, do you know, I like to help people who help themselves—that’s my system.”
I assured him that we of Raffleshurst were accustomed to helping ourselves to everything we could lay our hands on, a jest which even though it was only too true seemed to strike him pleasantly.
“What is that handsome structure you always pass over?” he asked, as I contrived to push the music-hall photograph aside for the fifth time.
I laughed deprecatingly. “Oh, that,” I said, modestly—“that’s only a little two-hundred-thousand-dollar music-hall and art gallery I have built for the town myself.”
Oh, that wonderful Henriette! How did she know that generosity even among the overgenerous was infectious?
“Indeed!” said Mr. Carnegie, his face lighting up with real pleasure. “Well, Mr. Higginbotham, I guess—I guess I’ll do it. I can’t be outdone in generosity by you, sir, and—er—I guess you can count on the library. Do you think one hundred and fifty thousand dollars will be enough?”
“Well, of course—” I began.
“Why not make my contribution equal to yours and call it an even two hundred thousand dollars?” he interrupted.
“You overwhelm me,” said I. “Of course, if you wish to—”
“And the Raffleshurst common council will appropriate five per cent. of that amount annually for its maintenance?” he inquired.
“Such a resolution has already been passed,” said I, taking a paper from my pocket. “Here is the ordinance, duly signed by myself as mayor and by the secretary of the council.”
Again that extraordinary woman, to provide me with so necessary a document!
The millionaire rose with alacrity and with his own hand drew me the required check.
“Mr. Mayor,” said he, “I like the quick, business-like way in which you do things. Pray present my compliments to the citizens of Raffleshurst-by-the-Sea, and tell them I am only too glad to help them. If you ever want a lake, sir, don’t fail to call upon me.” With which gracious words the millionaire bowed me out.
* * *
—
“Two hundred thousand dollars, Bunny?” cried Henriette when I handed her the check.
“Yep,” said I.
“Well, that is a good day’s sport!” she said, gazing at the slip. “Twice as much as I expected.”
“Yes,” said I. “But see here, Henriette, suppose Mr. Carnegie should go down to Raffleshurst to see the new building and find out what a bunco game we have played on him?”
“He’s not likely to do that for two reasons, Bunny,” she replied. “In the first place he suffers acutely from lumbago in winter and can’t travel, and in the second place he’d have to find Raffleshurst-by-the-Sea before he could make the discovery that somebody’d put up a game on him. I think by the time he is ready to start we can arrange matters to have Raffleshurst taken off the map.”
“Well, I think this is the cleverest trick you’ve turned yet, Henriette,” said I.
“Nonsense, Bunny, nonsense,” she replied. “Any idiot can get a Carnegie library these days. That’s why I put you on the job, dear,” she added, affectionately.
BAD GIRL: THE RANEE OF BUTILATA
THE WOMAN FROM THE EAST
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Edgar Wallace
AS THE MOST POPULAR WRITER in the world in the 1920s and 1930s, Richard Horatio Edgar Wallace (1875–1932) earned a fortune—reportedly more than a quarter of a million dollars a year during the last decade of his life—but his extravagant lifestyle left his estate deeply in debt when he died. The enormous success that he enjoyed in the 1920s and 1930s was unprecedented, with reports (perhaps exaggerated by his publishers) that one in every four books sold in Great Britain during those years had been from his pen.
The prolific Wallace reputedly wrote more than 170 novels, 18 stage plays, 957 short stories, and elements of numerous screenplays and scenarios, including the first British sound version of The Hound of the Baskervilles (1931); 160 films, both silent and sound, have been based on his books and stories, most famously King Kong (1933), for which he wrote the original story and film treatment.
The Ranee of Butilata is typical of the many rogues created by Wallace. As a populist writer, Wallace found that common people related to his rogues—criminals who were not violent or physically dangerous but whose talents and inclinations led them to the other side of the law. Others include Anthony Smith (The Mixer, 1927), (Elegant) Edward Farthindale (Elegant Edward, 1928), and Four Square Jane (Four Square Jane, 1929). Readers rooted for these and other of Wallace’s numerous literary criminals, who always stole from the wealthy and powerful.
When we meet the future Ranee of Butilata, she is a frightened, innocent woman not yet eighteen. Circumstances change her.
“The Woman from the East” was originally published in The Woman from the East and Other Stories (London, Hutchinson, 1934).
The Woman from the East
EDGAR WALLACE
PROLOGUE
The Match-Maker