An Artist In Crime

An Artist In Crime
By Rodrigues Ottolengui
[Copyright, 1895, by G. P. Putnam's Sons.]

"That, too, is an insanity, one, of course, which cannot be indulged in by any save the rich. But it is not the same as with the old stamp craze. Pictures remind us of nature and appeal to the senses of all mankind by recalling recollections brought into being by the scene presented. There is therefore a legitimate use for paintings, and a reasonable price as compensation for the work and genius of the artist is perhaps permissible. But should a man pay a fortune for a single canvas and then hang it in a room in his own house where it will be seen by few save himself, that man I should consider demented. So with jewels"--

"Ah! What of them?"

"Jewels have a market value, and a place in the world. But when a man goes about buying up every magnificent specimen that can be found, and then locks his treasures up in a safe, he is simply a crazy man pure and simple."

"What has all this to do with the case in hand?"

"Everything. My friend is a crank on the subject of jewels. Sensible and entertaining on any other topic, if you mention the name of any kind of jewel he is off in a minute, giving a long history of this or that celebrated stone. His especial craze in this connection is to relate the crimes that have surrounded every stone of any great price. He has made my blood curdle at his ghastly tales of cruel murder, committed to gain possession of diamonds and rubies."

"Then your conclusion is that by filling his mind with such thoughts he may have accustomed himself to the idea of crime in connection with jewels?"

"Exactly. The worst of it is that we may become habituated to anything. For instance, all ordinary men are abashed in the presence of the dead. No matter how strong minded a man may be or how much he may scoff at the idea of ghosts and the like, he will prefer company if he must sit up with a corpse. More than that, the slightest sound in the room, as the moving of the ice in the icebox, will cause a shiver to pass through him. Yet physicians who study frequently in the dissecting room come to have that contempt of a dead body that a butcher has for the meat which he sells."

"Your argument is not bad, Mr. Randolph. It is not impossible that your friend might be generous and gentle and yet with a mania for the possession of jewels, and with the knowledge of all the crimes that have been committed to gain them, the temptation to kill or steal would perhaps become overpowering, where his passion sees an opportunity to be satisfied. It is an odd world."

"Do you think that in a case of that kind the man would be excusable on the plea of mania? Legally, I mean?"

"Well, no, I do not! Psychologically, I admit that you may be correct, and I can empathize with a man who became a criminal in such a way. But legally he would be culpable. At least I think so. The question to be answered is, Did your friend steal those jewels? You slept with him that night. What do you think?"

"I don't know what to think. He could not have left the berth without climbing over me, and, though I sleep soundly, that ought to have awakened me. Then besides, if he did get out and take the things, where could he have hidden them, and how did they get to New Haven? By the way, I suppose you have the description of the man who left the satchel at the hotel? Does it tally with that of my friend?"

"I can't say. It is rather vague. The clerk says the man was of medium size, with red hair and beard, while the porter who saw him also is equally positive that he had black hair and no beard. The last fits Mr. Mitchel better than the first, but it is a description which would do as well for 1,000 men found in a walk along Broadway."

"I almost think that after all the thief is some one else."

"Let us hope so, Mr. Randolph. I will say this much, if there is any comfort in it for you. At present there is not enough evidence against him to warrant his arrest."

The detective said this with a purpose. By relieving this man's mind he hoped to make him more communicative. After a pause he asked:

"You have known Mr. Mitchel for a number of years, I believe?"

"No, not more than a year and a half. He has not been in New York two years."

"Oh! I see. A Boston man?"

"No, I think he came from New Orleans."

A curious sensation passed over Mr. Barnes. There is a superstitious belief, much esteemed by many, that a shudder or chill of this character means that some one is walking over the spot where the person affected is to be buried. Therefore an uncanny thought accompanies it. With Mr. Barnes it is different. He is free from all such notions, yet insensibly he is moved when this occurs to him, because it has so often happened that at the time he just hit upon a clew. Therefore he stopped to consider. All that Mr. Randolph had said was that Mr. Mitchel, he thought, had come from New Orleans. In a moment it flashed across Mr. Barnes' mind that the dead woman had told him that she had lived in New Orleans. Was there any significance in this fact? Did the man and the woman know each other in the southern city?

"How do you know that he is a southerner?" asked Mr. Barnes.

"Oh, that was easily discovered by his accent," replied Mr. Randolph. "Besides, he claims to be from the south, though I think he is rather inclined not to speak of his home. I have an indistinct recollection of his telling me once that he was born in New Orleans and that he had some painful recollections of the place. That is the only time that he ever alluded to it, however."

"I would like to ask you a question about another man, Mr. Randolph. I wonder whether you have met him. His name is Thauret."

"Alphonse Thauret? Yes, I know him, and I do not like him."

"Why not?"

"I don't exactly know. Perhaps it is only a prejudice. Still we are apt to form quick estimates of men, and I have distrusted this man from the first instant that I met him."

"Distrusted him?"

"Yes. I may be entirely wrong, and perhaps I should not tell you the story, but I will do so. It was at one of my clubs about two weeks ago. Some gentlemen were playing whist, and this Thauret was of the number. Others were looking on. The stakes were small; still there was money up. Thauret and his partner seemed to have a great deal of luck. Ordinarily, of course, two packs are used, but for some reason there was but one that night, so that the bottom card would be the trump. Now it is pretty well known that as the cards run in whist, each trick containing four of a suit mainly, it is a mathematical certainty that if the pack is shuffled twice only, and the dealer is skillful enough to handle the pack so that the two halves split each other exactly both times, the result will be that the majority of trumps will go to himself and partner. Cutting does not alter this fact at all. Now what I observed was that Thauret dealt in that way every time. He and his partner won about $200 during the evening. I think he cheated."

"Who was his partner?"

"I do not know."

"Was Mr. Mitchel present that night?"

"Yes, and agreed with me that the man is a card sharp. Yet of course we may be doing him an injustice. After all we only know that he shuffled his cards twice, and played in good luck. I have since seen him lose at the same game."

"Well, I am much indebted to you, Mr. Randolph, for the information which you have given me. I will say that if I can prove that your friend had no hand in this affair I shall be most happy."

The detective arose and Mr. Randolph accepted the action as a hint that he was dismissed. After his departure Mr. Barnes sat down again. In his mind he wondered whether this partner in the card game might have been the accomplice of Thauret in the jewel robbery, and whether he was the man who left the jewels in the hotel at New Haven. Why he should have done so, however, was a mystery.

A few minutes later Mr. Barnes left the building and walked rapidly toward Third avenue, where he took the elevated road, getting out at Seventy-sixth street. Going eastward a few houses, he rang the bell of one, and was shown into a modestly furnished parlor. A few minutes later a comely young woman of about 24 or 25 entered. The two talked together in low tones for some time, and then the girl left the room, returning in street attire. Together they left the house.

Four days later Mr. Barnes received a note which simply said, "Come up. " He seemed to understand it, however, and was quickly on his way to the house on Seventy-sixth street. Once more the girl joined him in the parlor.

"Well," said Mr. Barnes, "have you succeeded?"

"Why, of course," replied the girl. "You never knew me to make a failure, did you? You don't class me with Wilson, I hope?"

"Never mind about Wilson; tell me your story."

"Very good. Don't be impatient. You know me. I take my own way of doing things. Well, you left me in Madison Square park. I sat on a bench and watched Wilson. Two hours later a man carne out of the hotel and Wilson followed him. It made me laugh to see the gawk skulking along in the rear. He's no artist. Why, any booby could tell in a minute that he was on the trail."

"I told you to omit remarks about Wilson."

"I know, but I choose to tell you about him, because I make you appreciate me more. So there he was chasing after your man Mitchel. You see I have found out his name. You didn't tell me, but that could not trouble me long, you know. It was real fun. One minute Wilson would be actually running to keep up, and all of a sudden Mitchel would stop so short that Wilson would almost bump into him. Of course he knows Wilson by this time, and just has fun with him. I wanted to get one good square look at him myself. I jumped on a car and reached Third avenue ahead of them. I ran up stairs to the platform of the elevated station and hid in the waiting room. Soon up came Mitchel, and away he goes to the end of the platform. Wilson stopped in the middle and tried to look natural, which, of course, he didn't. When the train came along, I got aboard and walked through till I found my man, and down I sat right opposite to him. I just studied his face, you bet."

"Yes, miss, and he studied yours. You are a goose, and you disobeyed orders. I told you not to let that keen devil see you at all."

"That's all right. It came out straight enough. At Forty-second Street he got out, and so did Wilson, and so didn't I."

"Why not?"

"Because then he might have suspected me. No, sir; I rode on up to Forty-seventh street, crossed over, took a train down, and was waiting in the station when Mitchel came along the second time. This time he was alone, evidently having eluded Wilson at Thirty-fourth street, He took the down train. So did I, this time keeping out of sight. He went straight to his lay, and I after him. It is a house in Irving place. Here is the number." She handed a card to Mr. Barnes.

"You have done well," Said he, taking it. "But why did you not report to me at once?"

"I am not through yet. When I take up a case, I go to the end of it. Do you suppose I would track that man and then let you turn Wilson on him again? Not much. Next day I called at the house and rang the bell. A servant girl opened the door. I asked to see the mistress. She asked what I wanted, and I told her that I had been sent for to take a situation. She looked surprised, because, of course, she had not been notified that she was to be discharged. I quickly went on to say that I would not like to make her lose her place, and asked what sort of people they were who lived in the house. I got her talking and soon found out that it is a kind of private boarding school, and that there is a child there, a girl of 14, named Rose Mitchel, and that your man is her father. How does that strike you?"

"My girl, you are a genius. But still you knew this the day before yesterday. Why did you not report?"

"I went down again yesterday to try to learn more. I sat out in the park and watched the young girls when they came out for an airing. I could not find a chance to speak to the girl, but I found out which is she by hearing the others call her name. I had my camera along, and I took her portrait for you. What do you say now? Have I wasted my time?"

"Not at all. You are clever, but you will never be great, because you are too conceited. However, I have nothing but praise for you this time. Get me the picture."

The girl went up stairs and returned with a small, rather dim photograph of a young, pretty girl, and gave it to Mr. Barnes. About half an hour later he left the house.

(To be continued.)

"This time he was alone."