The Adventures of Ethel King, the Female Nick Carter

by Jean Petithuguenin

  “Yesterday evening I spied on Mr. Arling as he left his restaurant in Philadelphia, and I bumped into him as if by accident. On that occasion, I stole the gold medallion that he wore on his watch chain. Arling was supposed to come to the Swanborough moor and the constable had made an appointment with him. John Gettys waited for him along the road, in a deserted spot, and murdered him. It’s the doctor’s corpse you found in front of the barn. During this time, I was to carry out the burglary. I’m the one who took the strongbox from the safe in the Timbora and Son factory and left the doctor’s medallion in the offices. I broke open the strong box and I took the money; that I kept for myself.”

  “But you left the empty strongbox at the doctor’s house?”

  “Yes, that wasn’t difficult. I got into the house without any noise by picking the locks. I dropped off the strong box and left. In this way, suspicions had to fall on Arling.”

  “Why did Gettys have you take the decapitated body to the front of the barn?”

  “He had learned, from the police in Philadelphia, that Ethel King had taken the case in hand. At that moment he was staggered and thought about fleeing. But he got the idea of mutilating the corpse. He went back with me this evening to Swanborough. We took the body out of a ditch where the constable had left it. Gettys himself cut off the head, that he hid in a travel bag. He went back to Philadelphia by the train. Me, I was told to carry the decapitated dead man to the front of the barn and to paint a large question mark on the door with phosphorescent paint.”

  “Why that stage setting?”

  “To influence the superstitious country people.”

  “What did he want to do with the victim’s head?”

  “I don’t know…Burn it probably.”

  “Are you supposed to go meet the constable?”

  “Yes, at his house…to give him the news. He’s waiting for me.”

  The scoundrel, who seemed to be suffering atrociously had a fainting spell and if the two agents hadn’t jumped forward to support him, he would have fallen off his bench. The interrogation couldn’t continue.

  “Have…a…doctor…come,” the criminal moaned. “I’ve now told…all I know…”

  “Answer one more question,” Ethel King insisted. “You wanted to use the automobile to get back to Philadelphia?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you forced the chauffeur to drive, by threatening him with your revolver?”

  “Yes.”

  “But when he cried for help, you killed him?”

  “Yes, I was like a madman. I didn’t know any longer what I was doing,” Bill Sandy stammered.

  Ethel King and her assistant decided to return to Philadelphia by the first train. It left in an hour. Ethel returned first to Minnie Willow’s house to inform her, with the greatest consideration, of the tragic end of her fiancé.

  Minnie’s despair was heartbreaking. Ethel tried in vain to console her. However, when the first crisis of sorrow had passed, Mrs. Willow reflected on the fact that there was no absolute proof of Dr. Arling’s death, since they had only the statements of Bill Sandy. She told that to Ethel King, who shook her head sadly, but didn’t dare snatch that last hope from her.

  Denouement

  It was 3 a.m. when Miss King arrived at West Avenue in Philadelphia with her assistant. The house bearing the number 33 was a two-story building with a little garden in front of it. There was a light on the first floor, but the window curtains were tightly closed.

  “He must be anxiously awaiting Bill Sandy,” Ethel King observed. “When he sees me arrive in the place of that scoundrel, that will be a little surprise for him.”

  The detective, who was practiced in all sports, climbed over the wrought iron fence. Charley did the same and they both slipped noiselessly to the side of the steps.

  “We’re going to go into the house,” Ethel said. “When I get into the room where Gettys is at this moment, you’ll hide yourself behind the door and stay on watch to come in if need be.”

  She took out her master key and forced the lock. For a detective as experienced as she, it was child’s play. A few minutes later, she went across the entry hall with Charley. The door to Gettys’ apartment opened to the right. Ethel King took care of that obstacle as easily as she had the first. She pushed the door open cautiously, fearing it might hold an alarm system. But that was not the case. No tinkling troubled the profound silence which reigned in the apartment. Ethel and Charley slipped on tip-toes into the corridor and stopped in front of a door under which a thin ray of light filtered.

  A huge fire was burning in the fireplace. John Gettys, sunk into a vast armchair, was looking at the flames, meditating. The expression on his face denoted extreme trouble. He was pale. From time to time a nervous tremor shook him. He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn’t hear the door open slowly and someone enter the room. Ethel King entered on her tip-toes, behind the constable, and saw in the fireplace the remains of a skull that the fire had almost consumed.

  Gettys suddenly snatched himself out of his revelry, looked at his watch and, worried, murmured:

  “So late already! And Bill isn’t here yet. Hopefully, nothing has happened to him!”

  The constable got up nervously and he then saw Ethel King. He let out a cry of terror. But the detective bowed and said:

  “Good evening,” Mr. Gettys. “Don’t be afraid. It’s a colleague who’s come to see you.”

  The rogue instinctively plunged his hand into his jacket pocket, but Ethel King had already put her revolver under his nose.

  “Leave your weapon where it is! You wouldn’t however want to kill a colleague.”

  The constable had to give up his intention. But his eyes glittered and he asked in an irritated voice:

  “You are Miss King?”

  “That’s my name.”

  “How did you get in?”

  “Through the door.”

  “Why didn’t you ring the bell?”

  “In order not to disturb you in your reflections, so much more so as you are busy with a case which must excite all your interest.”

  “What case?”

  “That of the burglar Ralf Arling. I’ve come to talk over that case with you. You’ve already made some investigations that can guide me in my inquiry.”

  The rascal sighed with relief.

  “I couldn’t ask for anything better than to be of use to you, Miss King,” he said. “Sit down, please.”

  Ethel King was playing, as if unconsciously, with her revolver.

  “Ralf Arling is innocent, Mr. Gettys,” she observed.

  “How’s that? I have gathered some crushing charges against him.”

  “That’s true, Mr. Gettys. But we have arrested the real guilty person and he has confessed.”

  “You don’t say! What’s his name?” the constable exclaimed in a strangled voice.

  “Bill Sandy.”

  Gettys tried in vain to force a smile.

  “Bill Sandy,” he repeated. “I don’t know him.”

  “We found a decapitated cadaver on the Swanborough moor and we suspect that Bill Sandy knows the murderer.”

  “Ah! Did he tell you his name?”

  “No, not yet, but it won’t be long.”

  There were several seconds of silence, during which Gettys tapped his revolver in his pocket several times.

  “I congratulate you on your success, Miss King,” he finally continued. “But how can I help you?”

  “You might be able, perhaps, Mr. Gettys, to turn the murderer over to me.”

  “On my word, no, Miss King. It’s through you that I’m just now getting the first news of the crime. Have they identified the victim?”

  “They suspect that it’s Dr. Arling,” Ethel continued.

  The constable turned pale. The visitor continued in the most natural voice:

  “You could perhaps tell me, Mr. Gettys, if the head these flames have almost devoured is that of Dr. Arling.”

  The rasc
al wanted to rise, but Ethel King’s revolver held him in check.

  “Don’t move, Mr. Gettys. If you do, I’ll be tempted to fire.”

  She turned toward the door and shouted:

  “Charley! Come in!”

  A minute later Charley Lux was putting handcuffs on the constable, who let out a terrible oath.

  “What does this mean?”

  “I’m arresting you in the name of the law, John Gettys. You’re accused of having murdered Ralf Arling and of organizing the burglary of the Timbora and Son factory.”

  Gettys remained prostrate in his armchair.

  “Ethel King,” he said in a failing voice, “you can’t know how passion can lead a man to the most insane acts. I love Mrs. Minnie Willow. I committed the crimes you accuse me of in a moment of madness.”

  Ethel King looked at the rogue coldly.

  “If you’re able to make a jury believe that, you may perhaps escape the gallows,” she said. “But don’t lull yourself with false hopes. I’m persuaded that you acted less through love than avarice. It was most of all for her fortune that you dreamed of marrying Minnie Willow.”

  5. A MODERN SALOMÉ

  A Series of Assassination Attempts

  It was a cold autumn night. A closed automobile turned into Garden Street, one of the most beautiful streets in Philadelphia, and stopped in front of No. 77. An elegant gentleman got out of it and ordered the driver to wait. When he rang the bell at the pretty villa, a suburb clock slowly chimed the 12 strokes of midnight.

  A window on the second floor of the little house opened and a young man asked:

  “Who’s there?”

  “Someone who wants to speak to Miss Ethel King about urgent business.”

  “Just a moment.”

  A few seconds passed, then an electric light with a reflector attached came on over the door and threw a wave of light over the nocturnal visitor. He could thus be seen distinctly from the house of the famous detective.

  Ethel King had adopted this arrangement to avoid receiving at home persons with evil designs intent on making an attempt on her life. It was only thanks to the precautions that she took that she had to that point escaped attempts made by her numerous enemies. The reflector allowed her to submit every visitor who came to the garden door to a preliminary examination.

  Ethel King had noticed that a person driven by bad intentions, always made a frightened movement and instinctively tried to leave the field of light when the lamp was turned on.

  The blond gentleman didn’t move and at the end of a minute, the garden door opened. The visitor entered and went up to the top of the steps where he was met by Charley Lux, the assistant and cousin of the great detective.

  He was taken into the office of Ethel King, who was seated at her desk, a revolver placed in front of her, within reach of her hand.

  After the usual introductions, the man declared:

  “My name is Paul Boyssel, Miss King. I’m French by birth and have only lived in Philadelphia for about a year. I’m Director of the Mercantile Bank.”

  “Please sit down, Mr. Boyssel. You come at a very unusual hour. I see that you are very pale.”

  “Indeed, Miss King…I’ve just had a great fright, and I admit that, for a moment, I completely lost my head. I saw no other resource but to come to you. I hope you will succeed in delivering me from the unknown persecutors who are dogging my steps.”

  “Ah! So you have enemies who are trying to harm you?”

  “Who want to take my life, Miss King. It’s a horrible thing to live under constant menace, to tell yourself that at any instant a man might rush up to you to stab you or blow out your brains; to think that a criminal hand could pour poison into your water or in your food, that in returning home you’re perhaps going to find a bomb under your door.”

  “And you’re living with that impression?”

  “Yes, Miss King. It’s true mental torture. That has gone on for some weeks and the police to whom I appealed several times, haven’t been able to help me. They are as incapable as I am to lay hands on the mysterious persecutors.”

  “That’s strange,” said the detective. “Would you be kind enough to tell me in detail about the attempts you’ve been the victim of so that I can get as clear as possible an idea of the situation?”

  “Gladly, Miss. As I have already told you, I have been in Philadelphia only a year. Before that, I lived in Paris. I resigned from the situation I occupied there to take that of Director of the Mercantile Bank that a friend in New York helped me get here.”

  “Had you written previously to that friend that you intended to emigrate and would be glad to find a position in the United States?”

  “Yes.”

  “And why did you leave France?”

  Paul Boyssel blushed slightly and answered with embarrassment:

  “I prefer not to explain myself on that subject, Miss King. The reasons why I decided to become an ex-patriot are private.”

  “As you wish. But tell me what has happened to you here,”

  “I’m very happy with my new position, which gives me a salary greatly superior to the one I earned in France. In addition, I have become very quickly accustomed to the American way of life, and I was the happiest of men when these persecutions began.”

  The narrator paused and Ethel King took advantage of the pause to ask:

  “Are you married, Mr. Boyssel?”

  “No. I’m 32 years old, but I’m not thinking yet of getting married…But, to get back to my story. Let me tell you that one night, six weeks ago, returning home I found on my desk a scrap of paper with these words: ‘Prepare yourself. Your death has been decided.’ ”

  “Do you still have that note?”

  “Here it is.”

  The visitor took a little square piece of yellowed paper out of his billfold and held it out for the detective. Ethel examined the unusual missive. The words were written in pencil; the letters, separated one from the other, were slanted to the left.

  “The writing is disguised,” Ethel King noted. “It’s impossible to say if it was written by a man or a woman. Nevertheless, I’m well versed enough in handwriting that I can draw some rough estimate from this simple line about the character of its author. The person who wrote this to you is energetic, passionate, not very sensitive, and possesses a propensity to cruelty, which in addition is shown in the way the sentence is written.”

  Boyssel looked at the detective with bewilderment.

  “You can see all that in that written line?”

  “Definitely, Mr. Boyssel. It often happens in our profession that we have to examine anonymous letters and a good detective must have studied graphology.”

  “But you said that handwriting is disguised?’

  “Yes, that jumps out at you. However, it’s useless for a person to falsify his handwriting. He can’t entirely suppress certain characteristics which still give an idea of his character. But, let’s go on. What did you do when you found this note?”

  “At first I didn’t attach any great importance to it. I made my butler undergo a strict questioning. At the beginning I thought he had allowed himself to play a bad joke on me. But I soon dropped that idea. That man has been in my service since I arrived in Philadelphia. He’s a devoted boy, faithful and serious, incapable of such a silly act. However, apart from him, no one else can enter my apartment during my absence.”

  “May I ask where you live?”

  “72, 33rd. Street, the second floor. My windows look out over East Park.”

  “Could someone not have gotten into the apartment through the window?”

  “Yes, they could. I was even convinced that my enemies had entered that way.

  “The day after I received this threatening note, I was almost the victim of the first attack, just as I was entering the Mercantile Bank. It was 9 a.m. The large vestibule was empty. I put my foot on the first stair step to mount to the second floor, when I suddenly saw a hand come out from behind a column
and point a revolver at me. Fortunately, I had the presence of mind to jump to one side. That movement saved my life. The bullet whistled in front of me without hitting me.

  “My assailant shot twice more; however, I had hidden behind a column. Then I saw a man wrapped up in a huge overcoat, pulled up right to his ears, and wearing a felt hat with wide rims which hid his face, run across the vestibule. I ran after him, but he was more agile than I was. I lost trace of him. The bank employees, excited by the gun shots, started searches which found nothing more.

  “The criminal had escaped. As you can well understand, I called in the police who started an investigation but didn’t manage to arrest my assailant. They didn’t know how to make anything of that anonymous letter.”

  “I can easily believe it,” Ethel King observed. “You’re the one responsible for their lack of success, Mr. Boyssel.”

  The visitor looked surprised.

  “Why’s that?”

  “We’ll return to that question shortly,” the great detective replied. “First tell me what happened to you afterward.”

  “There were several other attacks against me. The next one happened a week later. My enemies sent me a package through the mail. My butler, whom I had told to open it, thought he heard a weak tick-tock on the inside. I rushed to carry the package to the police. It was a bomb! The scoundrels had missed their target once again.

  “But they didn’t get discouraged. One evening when I was absent, two weeks ago, my butler, who had to write a letter to his parents, sat down at my desk, even though I hadn’t given him permission to do so. He had sat down without closing the blinds or the curtains. Suddenly a shot was fired from the house across the street. The bullet came through the window and struck him in the head.

  “James Billing, that’s his name, fell over unconscious, and when I returned I found him bathed in his blood. I am persuaded that bullet was meant for me. The murderer, posted in the house across the street, seeing a man sitting at my desk, thought that it was me. Fortunately, my servant’s wound wasn’t serious. In this case again, all the police investigations were in vain. They investigated the house across the street, but didn’t find anything. There was a vacant apartment on the second floor. The author of the attack must have gotten in there.”