The Best American Mystery Stories of the Nineteenth Century

by Penzler, Otto

Maria Woods came this afternoon, taking advantage of Phoebe’s absence on a dressmaking errand. Maria has aged ten years in the last few weeks. Her hair is white, her cheeks are fallen in, her pretty color is gone.

  “May I have the ring—he gave me—forty years ago?” she faltered.

  I gave it to her; she kissed it and sobbed like a child. “Phoebe took it away from me before,” she said, “but she shan’t this time.”

  Maria related, with piteous little sobs, the story of her long subordination to Phoebe Dole. This sweet, child-like woman had always been completely under the sway of the other’s stronger nature. The subordination went back beyond my father’s original proposal to her; she had, before he made love to her as a girl, promised Phoebe she would not marry, and it was Phoebe who had, by representing to her that she was bound by this solemn promise, led her to write the letter to my father declining his offer, and sending back the ring.

  “And after all, we were going to get married, if he had not—died,” she said. “He was going to give me this ring again, and he had had the other date put in. I should have been so happy!”

  She stopped, and stared at me with horror-stricken inquiry.

  “What was Phoebe doing out in your back yard at one o’clock that night?” she cried.

  “What do you mean?” I returned.

  “I saw Phoebe come out of your back shed door at one o’clock that very night. She had a bundle in her arms. She went along the path about as far as the old well; then she stooped down, and seemed to be working at something. When she got up, she didn’t have the bundle. I was watching at our back door. I thought I heard her go out a little while before, and went downstairs, and found that door unlocked. I went in quick, and up to my chamber, and into my bed, when she started home across the field. Pretty soon I heard her come in; then I heard the pump going. She slept downstairs; she went on to her bedroom. What was she doing in your back yard that night?”

  “You must ask her,” said I. I felt my blood running cold.

  “I’ve been afraid to,” moaned Maria Woods. “She’s been dreadful strange lately. I wish that book agent was going to stay at our house.”

  Maria Woods went home in about an hour. I got a ribbon for her, and she has my poor father’s ring concealed in her withered bosom. Again, I cannot believe this.

  Thursday.—It is all over; Phoebe Dole has confessed! I do not know now in exactly what way Mr. Dix brought it about—how he accused her of her crime. After breakfast I saw them coming across the field. Phoebe came first, advancing with rapid strides like a man; Mr. Dix followed, and my father’s poor old sweetheart tottered behind, with her handkerchief at her eyes. Just as I noticed them the front door bell rang; I found several people there, headed by the high sheriff. They crowded into the sitting room, just as Phoebe Dole came rushing in, with Mr. Dix and Maria Woods.

  “I did it!” Phoebe cried out to me. “I am found out, and I have made up my mind to confess. She was going to marry your father—I found it out. I stopped it once before. This time I knew I couldn’t, unless I killed him. She’s lived with me in that house for over forty years. There are other ties as strong as the marriage one that are just as sacred! What right had he to take her away from me and break up my home?

  “I overheard your father and Rufus Bennett having words. I thought folks would think he did it. I reasoned it all out. I had watched your cat go in that little door. I knew the shed door unhooked; I knew how long my arm was; I thought I could undo it. I stole over here a little after midnight. I went all round the house to be sure nobody was awake. Out in the front yard I happened to think my shears were tied on my belt with a ribbon, and I untied them. I thought I put the ribbon in my pocket—it was a piece of yellow ribbon—but I suppose I didn’t, because they found it afterward, and thought it came off your young man’s whip.

  “I went round to the shed door, unhooked it, and went in. The moon gave light enough. I got out your father’s overalls from the kitchen closet; I knew where they were. I went through the sitting room to the parlor. In there I slipped off my dress and my skirts and put on the overalls. I put a handkerchief over my face, leaving only my eyes exposed. I crept out then into the sitting room; there I pulled off my shoes and went into the bedroom.

  “Your father was fast asleep; it was such a hot night the clothes were thrown back and his chest was bare. The first thing I saw was that pistol on the stand beside his bed. I suppose he had had some fear of Rufus Bennett coming back after all. Suddenly I thought I’d better shoot him. It would be surer and quicker; and, if you were aroused, I knew that I could get away and everybody would suppose he had shot himself.

  “I took up the pistol and held it close to his head. I had never fired a pistol, but I knew how it was done. I pulled, but it would not go off. Your father stirred a little—I was mad with terror—I struck at his head with the pistol. He opened his eyes and cried out; then I dropped the pistol and took these”—Phoebe Dole pointed to the great shining shears hanging at her waist—“for I am strong in my wrists. I only struck twice, over his heart.

  “Then I went back into the sitting room. I thought I heard a noise in the kitchen—I was full of terror then—and slipped into the sitting-room closet. I felt as if I were fainting, and clutched the shelf to keep from falling.

  “I felt that I must go up stairs to see if you were asleep—to be sure you had not waked up when your father cried out. I thought if you had, I should have to do the same by you. I crept upstairs to your chamber. You seemed asleep, but, as I watched, you stirred a little. But instead of striking at you I slipped into your closet. I heard nothing more from you. I felt myself wet with blood. I caught hold of something hanging in your closet, and wiped myself off with it. I knew by the feeling it was your green silk. You kept quiet and I saw you were asleep, so I crept out of the closet and down the stairs, got my clothes and shoes, and, out in the shed, took off the overalls and dressed myself. I rolled up the overalls and took a board away from the old well and threw them in as I went home. I thought if they were found, it would be no clue to me. The handkerchief, which was not much stained, I put to soak that night and washed out next morning before Maria was up. I washed my hands and arms carefully that night, and also my shears.

  “I expected Rufus Bennett would be accused of the murder, and maybe hung. I was prepared for that, but I did not like to think I had thrown suspicion upon you by staining your dress. I had nothing against you. I made up my mind I’d get hold of that dress, before anybody suspected you, and dye it black. I came in and got it, as you know. I was astonished not to see any more stains on it. I only found two or three little streaks that scarcely anybody would have noticed. I didn’t know what to think. I suspected, of course, that you had found the stains and got them off, thinking they might bring suspicion upon you.

  “I did not see how you could possibly suspect me, in any case. I was glad when your young man was cleared. I had nothing against him. That is all I have to say.”

  I think I must have fainted away then. I cannot describe the dreadful calmness with which that woman told this—that woman with the good face, whom I had last heard praying like a saint, in meeting. I believe in demoniacal possession after this.

  When I came to, the neighbors were around me, putting camphor on my head, and saying soothing things to me, and the old friendly faces had returned. But I wish I could forget!

  They have taken Phoebe Dole away—I only know that. I cannot bear to talk any more about it. When I think there must be a trial, and I must go!

  Henry has been over this evening. I suppose we shall be happy after all, when I have had a little time to get over this. He says I have nothing to worry about. Mr. Dix has gone home. I hope Henry and I may be able to repay his kindness some day.

  A month later. I have just heard that Phoebe Dole has died in prison! This is my last entry. May God help all other innocent women in hard straits as He has helped me!

  1896

  CLEVELAND MOFFETT
/>
  The Mysterious Card and The Mysterious Card Unveiled

  The most famous story written by CLEVELAND MOFFETT (1863–1926), and one of the two most famous riddle stories of all time (along with Frank Stockton’s “The Lady, or the Tiger?”), is “The Mysterious Card.” First published in 1895 (though the magazine was dated 1896), it is the story of an American in Paris who is given a card bearing some words that he cannot translate and that causes everyone to whom he appeals for a translation to turn from him in violent loathing and disgust. The story caused such an uproar that the author was all but forced to produce a sequel the following year, “The Mysterious Card Unveiled.” An enterprising publisher then put both stories together in book form with a gimmick: the second part was sealed, and the purchaser was promised a refund if the book was returned to the bookseller with its seal unbroken.

  An American dramatist, journalist, novelist, and short story writer, Moffett spent many years in Europe as a correspondent for several newspapers, and even after he returned to live permanently in the United States, he set many of his stories abroad, mostly in France. He lived his last years in Paris.

  Moffett made several major contributions to the mystery genre, notably the novel Through the Wall (1909), which is a Haycraft-Queen Cornerstone; True Tales from the Archives of the Pinkertons (1897), accounts that are almost as fictionalized as those written by Allan, Frank, and Myron Pinkerton years earlier; The Bishop’s Purse (1913), coauthored with Oliver Herford, a humorous tale of robbery and impersonation set in England; and The Seine Mystery (1925), about an American journalist in Paris who does amateur sleuthing.

  “The Mysterious Card” was first published in the February 1896 issue of The Black Cat; “The Mysterious Card Unveiled” was first published in the August 1896 issue of The Black Cat. Both stories were collected in The Mysterious Card and The Mysterious Card Unveiled (Boston: Small, Maynard, 1912).

  ***

  THE MYSTERIOUS CARD

  RICHARD BURWELL, OF New York, will never cease to regret that the French language was not made a part of his education.

  This is why:

  On the second evening after Burwell arrived in Paris, feeling lonely without his wife and daughter, who were still visiting a friend in London, his mind naturally turned to the theater. So, after consulting the daily amusement calendar, he decided to visit the Folies Bergère, which he had heard of as one of the notable sights. During an intermission he went into the beautiful garden, where gay crowds were strolling among the flowers, and lights, and fountains. He had just seated himself at a little three-legged table, with a view to enjoying the novel scene, when his attention was attracted by a lovely woman, gowned strikingly, though in perfect taste, who passed near him, leaning on the arm of a gentleman. The only thing that he noticed about this gentleman was that he wore eye-glasses.

  Now Burwell had never posed as a captivator of the fair sex, and could scarcely credit his eyes when the lady left the side of her escort and, turning back as if she had forgotten something, passed close by him, and deftly placed a card on his table. The card bore some French words written in purple ink, but, not knowing that language, he was unable to make out their meaning. The lady paid no further heed to him, but, rejoining the gentleman with the eye-glasses, swept out of the place with the grace and dignity of a princess. Burwell remained staring at the card.

  Needless to say, he thought no more of the performance or of the other attractions about him. Everything seemed flat and tawdry compared with the radiant vision that had appeared and disappeared so mysteriously. His one desire now was to discover the meaning of the words written on the card.

  Calling a fiacre, he drove to the Hôtel Continental, where he was staying. Proceeding directly to the office and taking the manager aside, Burwell asked if he would be kind enough to translate a few words of French into English. There were no more than twenty words in all.

  “Why, certainly,” said the manager, with French politeness, and cast his eyes over the card. As he read, his face grew rigid with astonishment, and, looking at his questioner sharply, he exclaimed: “Where did you get this, monsieur?”

  Burwell started to explain, but was interrupted by: “That will do, that will do. You must leave the hotel.”

  “What do you mean?” asked the man from New York, in amazement.

  “You must leave the hotel now—tonight—without fail,” commanded the manager excitedly.

  Now it was Burwell’s turn to grow angry, and he declared heatedly that if he wasn’t wanted in this hotel there were plenty of others in Paris where he would be welcome. And, with an assumption of dignity, but piqued at heart, he settled his bill, sent for his belongings, and drove up the Rue de la Paix to the Hôtel Bellevue, where he spent the night.

  The next morning he met the proprietor, who seemed to be a good fellow, and, being inclined now to view the incident of the previous evening from its ridiculous side, Burwell explained what had befallen him, and was pleased to find a sympathetic listener.

  “Why, the man was a fool,” declared the proprietor. “Let me see the card; I will tell you what it means.” But as he read, his face and manner changed instantly.

  “This is a serious matter,” he said sternly. “Now I understand why my confrère refused to entertain you. I regret, monsieur, but I shall be obliged to do as he did.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Simply that you cannot remain here.”

  With that he turned on his heel, and the indignant guest could not prevail upon him to give any explanation.

  “We’ll see about this,” said Burwell, thoroughly angered.

  It was now nearly noon, and the New Yorker remembered an engagement to lunch with a friend from Boston, who with his family, was stopping at the Hôtel de l’Alma. With his luggage on the carriage, he ordered the cocher to drive directly there, determined to take counsel with his countryman before selecting new quarters. His friend was highly indignant when he heard the story—a fact that gave Burwell no little comfort, knowing, as he did, that the man was accustomed to foreign ways from long residence abroad.

  “It is some silly mistake, my dear fellow; I wouldn’t pay any attention to it. Just have your luggage taken down and stay here. It is a nice, homelike place, and it will be very jolly, all being together. But, first, let me prepare a little ‘nerve settler’ for you.”

  After the two had lingered a moment over their Manhattan cocktails, Burwell’s friend excused himself to call the ladies. He had proceeded only two or three steps when he turned, and said: “Let’s see that mysterious card that has raised all this row.”

  He had scarcely withdrawn it from Burwell’s hand when he started back, and exclaimed:—

  “Great God, man! Do you mean to say—this is simply—”

  Then, with a sudden movement of his hand to his head, he left the room.

  He was gone perhaps five minutes, and when he returned his face was white.

  “I am awfully sorry,” he said nervously; “but the ladies tell me they—that is, my wife—she has a frightful headache. You will have to excuse us from the lunch.”

  Instantly realizing that this was only a flimsy pretense, and deeply hurt by his friend’s behavior, the mystified man arose at once and left without another word. He was now determined to solve this mystery at any cost. What could be the meaning of the words on that infernal piece of pasteboard?

  Profiting by his humiliating experiences, he took good care not to show the card to any one at the hotel where he now established himself,—a comfortable little place near the Grand Opera House.

  All through the afternoon he thought of nothing but the card, and turned over in his mind various ways of learning its meaning without getting himself into further trouble. That evening he went again to the Folies Bergère in hope of finding the mysterious woman, for he was now more than ever anxious to discover who she was. It even occurred to him that she might be one of those beautiful Nihilist conspirators, or, perhaps, a Russian spy
, such as he had read of in novels. But he failed to find her, either then or on the three subsequent evenings which he passed in the same place. Meanwhile the card was burning in his pocket like a hot coal. He dreaded the thought of meeting anyone that he knew, while this horrible cloud hung over him. He bought a French-English dictionary and tried to pick out the meaning word by word, but failed. It was all Greek to him. For the first time in his life, Burwell regretted that he had not studied French at college.

  After various vain attempts to either solve or forget the torturing riddle, he saw no other course than to lay the problem before a detective agency. He accordingly put his case in the hands of an agent de la sûreté who was recommended as a competent and trustworthy man. They had a talk together in a private room, and, of course, Burwell showed the card. To his relief, his adviser at least showed no sign of taking offense. Only he did not and would not explain what the words meant.

  “It is better,” he said, “that monsieur should not know the nature of this document for the present. I will do myself the honor to call upon monsieur tomorrow at his hotel, and then monsieur shall know everything.”

  “Then it is really serious?” asked the unfortunate man.

  “Very serious,” was the answer.

  The next twenty-four hours Burwell passed in a fever of anxiety. As his mind conjured up one fearful possibility after another he deeply regretted that he had not torn up the miserable card at the start. He even seized it,—prepared to strip it into fragments, and so end the whole affair. And then his Yankee stubbornness again asserted itself, and he determined to see the thing out, come what might.

  “After all,” he reasoned, “it is no crime for a man to pick up a card that a lady drops on his table.”

  Crime or no crime, however, it looked very much as if he had committed some grave offense when, the next day, his detective drove up in a carriage, accompanied by a uniformed official, and requested the astounded American to accompany them to the police headquarters.