American Sherlocks

by Nick Rennison

  ‘This is the part of the job that I dislike, but desperate cases require desperate methods.’

  ‘How in the world can you get in?’

  ‘This is one feature of the case where credit belongs to the police department. They secured skeleton keys in order to search old Markley’s rooms.’

  ‘Then what’s the use of your doing it over again?’

  ‘Oh, they might have forgotten something,’ was the laughing rejoinder.

  The two men entered the house noiselessly, crept silently up the stairs and soon found themselves in the modest habitation of the old watchman. It consisted of a bedroom and a sitting room. Barnes paid no attention to the sleeping chamber, but proceeded at once to the living apartment. This was plainly but comfortably furnished. A roll-top desk stood in one comer and a big Morris chair in the other. The left wall contained some family photographs, and Barnes gazed long and earnestly at one of these representing two young men. The other wall held a large engraving of General Grant on horseback. Presently Barnes went to the desk. It was locked. Without any evidence of compunction he pulled out a sharp instrument and began to twist the lock.

  ‘You’re going pretty far,’ said Clancy gravely.

  ‘Yes,’ retorted the irrepressible one, ‘and the farther I go the more I learn.’

  The lock yielded and the top rolled up. Barnes grabbed a handful of papers and went through them like a conjurer doing a trick. Finally he reached a little yellow slip. He read what was written on the sheet and gave a gurgle of delight. He hastily slipped all the papers back in place and pulled the desk down in a way that automatically locked it, and cried out cheerfully:

  ‘We’re through, Clancy, old boy; nothing to do until tomorrow.’

  After breakfast next day Barnes called Dayton, Ohio, on the long-distance telephone. It took him some time to get the person he wanted, but by noon his face was wreathed in smiles.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he exclaimed gaily to Clancy, ‘I want you to meet me at Markley’s room the day after tomorrow at eight o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, we’re going to have a little surprise party.’

  At the hour appointed Barnes and Clancy were at the modest quarters of the old watchman. So was Dr Randall-Brown. The curator was annoyed.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ he exclaimed testily. ‘I don’t relish the idea of breaking into a man’s rooms without absolute proof.’

  Barnes smiled.

  ‘If we had absolute proof, we wouldn’t have to do it.’

  ‘Well, what do you expect to prove by coming here?’

  ‘That depends entirely on the result of my experiment. We’ll know all about it in a few minutes.’

  As he spoke, heavy footsteps were heard on the stairway, and in a few minutes Markley entered the room. He seemed dazed at the unexpected sight of strangers in his apartments.

  ‘What’s – what’s the meaning of this?’ he stammered.

  ‘You know,’ said Barnes, sharply.

  ‘I don’t,’ he retorted with a trace of defiance.

  Barnes advanced until he stood directly in front of the old man. He pointed an accusing finger at him. He spoke sternly.

  ‘I charge you with the theft of the Cleopatra necklace from the Cosmopolitan Museum!’

  The color slowly receded from the cheeks of the man’s cherubic face. He sank weakly into the easy chair. It was some moments before he spoke, and then it was in a hushed and trembling voice.

  ‘Where’s – where’s your proof?’

  ‘In the necklace itself – we’ve found its hiding place.’

  The man’s glance went waveringly about the room, and then it halted and rested on the engraving of General Grant. Barnes had been watching him like a hawk, and upon that significant halt he rushed over to the picture.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, as if answering a question, ‘it does hang a bit crooked,’ and, as he straightened the frame, there was a crashing sound from behind the engraving and a small woollen bag fell to the floor.

  Barnes picked it up quickly, and opening the top emptied the contents on the table. There before the astonished gaze of the onlookers, were the pearls, amethysts and diamonds that had composed the Cleopatra necklace.

  Markley lay back in his chair, too stupefied to speak. Dr Randall-Brown broke forth in a cry of anguish.

  ‘This is horrible! No one living could have convinced me that Adam Markley was a thief!’

  ‘He isn’t,’ said Barnes, coolly.

  The curator pointed a despairing finger at the gems and then at the cowering man in the chair.

  ‘There,’ he cried angrily, ‘how do you explain this evidence away?’

  Barnes paused for a moment as though listening, and then said:

  ‘If I’m not mistaken, the explanation will be here in a moment.’

  He had scarcely ceased speaking when the door opened, and in walked a rosy-cheeked, brown-haired, cherubic-faced person. The detective gave a wave of his hand in the direction of the newcomer.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, with something like dramatic effect, ‘let me present to you Mr Adam Markley.’

  Every one shouted with surprise.

  ‘But who,’ exclaimed Dr Randall-Brown, pointing to the creature in the arm chair, ‘is this man?’

  ‘That,’ said Barnes, ‘is Jim Markley, thief and general all-round confidence man. He had been living in Dayton, O., but when he read of your $30,000 necklace he couldn’t resist the temptation to come here and get it. How he got it is a long story that will have to be told in the court, but in the meantime it is sufficient for you to know that he first had his twin brother lured away from here and then, clothing himself in his gray uniform, personated him at the museum and easily got away with the gems during the night.’

  While he talked the two brothers were staring at each other. Adam’s eyes were humid with unshed tears, but the face of the black sheep now betrayed only cynical indifference. The resemblance between the two was remarkable. They were as much alike as two peas in a pod. After the necessary formalities had ended, they separated, one to take his place in a felon’s dock, the other to resume his position as a faithful and trusted employee.

  That night Clancy ventured to question Bromley Barnes.

  ‘I thought at first,’ he said, ‘that the culprit was either the student who was found going through Dr Randall-Brown’s desk, or Professor von Hermann, the Egyptologist.’

  Barnes shook his head.

  ‘The boy was hunting for a set of questions to be used in the coming examination, while the sight of the necklace simply caused Professor von Hermann to give his rare collection to the Cosmopolitan Museum.’

  ‘You got your clue the night you peeped in at Markley, didn’t you?’ persisted Clancy.

  ‘I did,’ was the reply, ‘and the clue was in the book he was reading. I knew that Adam Markley could scarcely write his own name and that he could read only with great difficulty. Therefore, when I discovered that watchman reading the second volume of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire with ease, I knew he wasn’t Adam Markley. The rest was easy. The finding of the telegram that lured Adam to Dayton, and then getting into communication with him over the long-distance telephone was simply a matter of course.’

  ‘What’s the moral as far as Jim Markley is concerned?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ grinned Barnes, ‘unless it’s the old one “where ignorance is bliss ’tis folly to be wise.”’

  MR BARNES and MR MITCHEL

  Created by Rodrigues Ottolengui (1861-1937)

  Born in Charleston, South Carolina but long resident in New York, Rodrigues Ottolengui devoted most of his energies to his career as a dentist. When he died in 1937, obituaries concentrated more on his decades-long editorship of a dental journal and his pioneering use of X-rays in ort
hodontics than they did on the four novels and a collection of short stories that he published in the 1890s. However, the stories, featuring the professional detective Mr Barnes and the wealthy amateur Mr Mitchel, were not completely forgotten. Ellery Queen mentioned them in an influential list of great crime fiction published in the 1940s and they have continued to find readers who enjoy detective stories from that period. ‘The Montezuma Emerald’, in which Mr Barnes comes to believe that his friend and crime-solving partner has been brutally murdered by a Mexican gangster in search of a priceless jewel, is one of the best of Ottolengui’s tales.

  THE MONTEZUMA EMERALD

  ‘Is the Inspector in?’

  Mr Barnes immediately recognised 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 W 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 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 dispatch 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 role,’ 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 dispatch 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.

  Ten minutes later he decided upon a course of action, and proceeded to a telegraph office, where he found that, as he had supposed, the dispatch had come from the Paris firm of jewellers from which Mr Mitchel had frequently bought gems. He sent a lengthy message to them, asking for an immediate reply.

  While waiting for the answer, the detective was not inactive. He went direct to Mr Mitchel’s house, and once more questioned the valet, from whom he obtained an accurate description of the clothes which his master must have worn, o
nly one suit being absent. This fact alone seemed significantly against the theory of a visit to friends out of town. Next, Mr Barnes interviewed the neighbours, none of whom remembered to have seen Mr Mitchel during the week. At the sixth house below, however, he learned something definite. Here he found Mr Mordaunt, a personal acquaintance, and member of one of Mr Mitchel’s clubs. This gentleman stated that he had dined at the club with Mr Mitchel on the previous Thursday, and had accompanied him home, in the neighbourhood of eleven o’clock, parting with him at the door of his own residence. Since then he had neither seen nor heard from him. This proved that Mr Mitchel was at home one day after Williams went to Newport.

  Leaving the house, Mr Barnes called at the nearest telegraph office and asked whether a messenger summons had reached them during the week, from Mr Mitchel’s house. The record slips showed that the last call had been received at twelve-thirty a.m. on Friday. A cab had been demanded, and was sent, reaching the house at one o’clock. At the stables, Mr Barnes questioned the cab-driver, and learned that Mr Mitchel alighted at Madison Square.

  ‘But he got right into another cab,’ added the driver. ‘It was just a chance I seen him, ’cause he made as if he was goin’ into the Fifth Avenoo; but luck was again him, for I’d scarcely gone two blocks back, when I had to get down to fix my harness, and while I was doin’ that, who should I see but my fare go by in another cab.’

  ‘You did not happen to know the driver of that vehicle?’ suggested Mr Barnes.

  ‘That’s just what I did happen to know. He’s always by the Square, along the curb by the Park. His name’s Jerry. You’ll find him easy enough, and he’ll tell you where he took that fly bird.’

  Mr Barnes went down town again, and did find Jerry, who remembered driving a man at the stated time, as far as the Imperial Hotel; but beyond that the detective learned nothing, for at the hotel no one knew Mr Mitchel, and none recollected his arrival early Friday morning.