An Artist in Crime

"In fear the priest went into the pyramid and stole the jewel. When he presented it to Cleopatra she cried out at him: 'What fool's trick is this? Do you think this pale stone a match to mine?' The priest explained that hers had been dyed red in the blood of the pigeon. 'Ah, so!' she replied; 'then this one shall be also a richer red. You promised me your life once. I claim it, and in your blood this stone shall be steeped till it matches the other in color.' She carried out her threat, and the two stones were once more mates."

"What an absurdity!" exclaimed Mr. Randolph.

"Do not say so," said Mr. Thauret; "we cannot tell what may happen in this world."

"The next change of owners was when Cleopatra killed herself. One of her handmaidens stole the two rubies, but she herself was taken a slave to Rome and sold. Her purchaser discovered the rubies, took them from her, and then secretly murdered her lest she might tell that he had them. From this time on they have gone by the name of 'The Egyptian Gems.' I need not give you the whole list of robberies and murders that have been connected with the two stones, though I have the written record complete, with names of all the victims. Suffice it to say that for years no one was the gainer by getting possession of them. They have always been impossible to sell, until I bought this one, which is the first time either ever was offered honestly in the market. Before this, each new owner had obtained the jewels either by theft or murder, and dared not admit that he had them. Another curious thing is that no one has ever succeeded in hiding the jewels, so that they could not be found. They have been secreted between the stones of a wall, they have been sewn under the hide of an ass, and hidden in other equally obscure places, yet always the next thief has found and taken them."

"Ah, that is interesting," said Mr. Thauret. "But tell us frankly, since we are pledged not to repeat what we hear, do you suppose there is any power inherent in the stone which attracts persons to their discovery?"

"I cannot say, but that is one of the claims. This seems to be substantiated by recent events too."

"How so?"

"Well, my usual interest in large gems led me to police head-quarters when that woman Rose Mitchel was killed after having been robbed. The jewels you remember had been quickly recovered and are still in the hands of the police. I was allowed to see them, and the ruby in that lot is undoubtedly the mate to mine."

"You think that it was the presence of that stone which led to the discovery by the police of the satchel containing the jewels?"

Mr. Thauret seemed much interested, but Mr. Mitchel merely shrugged his shoulders for answer, though it seemed plain that he did hold that opinion. Mr. Barnes wondered whether Mr. Thauret's interest was due to the fact that, having stolen the jewels, he was astonished to hear of so strange an explanation of their recovery from the hotel where he had hidden them. Yet the man's next words seemed to dispel such an idea. He said:

"You may believe in that sort of thing, Mr. Mitchel, but I, who have only modern ideas, cannot accept any such theory. The fact that the stones have always been discovered when hidden has led those who know the history to mistake a chain of coincidences for evidence of supernatural power within the stones themselves. I think I can readily account for the series of hidings and findings."

"I should be pleased to have you do so," said Mr. Mitchel.

"Have you never read Edgar Poe's tale, the one where a letter is stolen and hidden? The detectives failed to find it, though it was in plain sight all the time, but another man did find it. He went upon the correct theory that the thief, knowing that a search would be made, and guessing that all obscure places would be explored first, would hide it in some commonplace manner. He visited the apartments, and found the letter in the letter-rack. Now this is ingenious, but Mr. Poe here gives us a bit of special pleading and a curious anomaly at the same time. He wished to show that an obscure corner would be a bad hiding-place, and so worked out his result. At the same time he draws a skilful thief who baffled expert police, and yet who hid his letter where the first man with brains easily found it. This is the anomaly. Where the article is small, as is the case with this lost ruby, there is but one safe place for the thief to hide his stolen property."

"And that place is?" asked Mr. Mitchel, himself betraying interest.

"Upon his own person, where at all times he could be on the alert to thwart the searching committee."

"Ah, you are forgetting," said Mr. Mitchel, "that idea was not overlooked by Edgar Poe. In the tale, the man was waylaid by officers in disguise, who bound him and then searched him. If the letter had been about him, it would have been found."

"Not at all. The letter was placed in an envelope, which had been turned, and then mailed so that on the reverse it received the postal imprint. This foiled the detectives when they examined the letter-rack. It would have fooled them in exploring his pockets, if found with other letters similarly addressed. On the other hand, had it been in his pocket, the man who finally obtained it could not have done so by creating a confusion in the street which attracted the man to the window. It would have been difficult for him even to guess that it was in the pocket. Besides, with the ruby it would be simple, since it is an article that can be disposed of at a moment's notice."

"Very true," said Mr. Mitchel, "but – " Here he paused for a moment, and seemed abstracted. Quickly recovering, he said: "What was I saying? I have lost the thread of our conversation."

"Mr. Thauret suggested that the thief could keep the ruby about him," replied Mr. Randolph.

"Ah, exactly. Now I remember. Well, I should say that it would be a hazardous undertaking. I believe had I stolen the gem, as, by the way, Randolph, you suggested, I could do better than that."

"Ah," said Mr. Randolph, "this is getting interesting. Come, tell us; how should you hide the jewel, supposing that you had taken it?"

"That is a leading question," said Mr. Mitchel. "I prefer not to answer it. Walls have ears, you know." He said this in a significant way that made Mr. Randolph uncomfortable for a moment. Mr. Mitchel at once continued: "I will say this, however, that the thief, whoever he is, cannot profit by his theft."

"Why not?" asked Mr. Thauret.

"Because there is not another gem in existence save those two which are so absolutely perfect in color. In fact, they are the standards by which rubies are valued. It is claimed that the expression 'pigeon-blood ruby' owes its existence to the staining of one of these gems in the manner described. Dealers sometimes cut a pigeon's throat to compare the blood with the color of a gem being appraised. The significance of this is, that the stolen gem cannot be sold as it is, because it would be recognized, and I have notified all the great dealers in the world that my 'Egyptian Gem' has been stolen. If it were attempted to have it cut up, the lapidary would at once report the matter, as the reward offered by me is greater than could be earned by recutting the stone."

"Suppose that the thief himself is a gem cutter?" asked Thauret.

"Even then the perfect color would at once tell the first dealer to whom he applied that the 'Egyptian Gem' had been recut."

"The thief might be a patient man, and all things come to him who waits," replied Mr. Thauret.

"True," said Mr. Mitchel. "But mark my words, the 'Egyptian Gem' will not be sold by the person who has it now."

"Especially if that person is yourself," said Mr. Randolph.

"Just so," answered Mr. Mitchel.

The conversation now drifted to other things, and shortly after, the dinner being over, the three men separated.

As Mr. Barnes was about to leave the main dining-room, one of the servants handed him a note. Supposing it to be from Mr. Randolph, he opened it at once, and was surprised and chagrined to read:

"When Mr. Barnes next plays the eavesdropper he should be careful to observe whether a mirror reflects both sides of a portière which he might suppose would conceal him.

"Mitchel."

"The devil take it," muttered Mr. Barnes. "I wonder at what point he discovered my presence. Was that last part, about his having warned all the dealers, thrown in gratuitously for my benefit, and to lead me to suppose that some one else stole the stone? If so, why does he now let me know that he saw me?"

CHAPTER XIII.

MR. BARNES GOES SOUTH

Mr. Barnes now began some researches into the past history of Mr. Alphonse Thauret. Obtaining the date of his first registry at the Hoffman House he found that to be about a month before the train robbery occurred. Finding the expressman who had brought his baggage to the hotel, it transpired that it had been taken from an English steamship, yet the name Thauret did not appear upon the list of passengers. As it was certain, however, that the man must have arrived by the ship, it was evident that "Thauret" was an alias. Mr. Barnes copied the ship's list for future reference. A search for the name Rose Mitchel was fruitless, though extended to the passenger lists of all arriving steamers for two months prior to the murder.

Believing that Mr. Thauret must have some communication with foreign friends, and hoping to obtain some clue by the post-marks of any such letters, Mr. Barnes arranged an espionage of the man's mail. But though the hotel clerk reported to him daily for several weeks, there was not one foreign letter. As to money, Mr. Thauret appeared to be well supplied, paying his board-bills promptly with checks upon a neighboring national bank, in which it was ascertained that he had deposited to his credit several thousand dollars.

Thus after a long investigation, Mr. Barnes was chagrined to admit that he had discovered nothing save that Mr. Thauret had come across the ocean under an assumed name, and even this meagre knowledge was a mere matter of inference.

Though baffled in this direction Mr. Barnes had been more successful in another effort which he essayed. This was a line of investigation which he inaugurated, hoping to discover the whereabouts of the child Rose Mitchel, who was so skilfully kept in hiding. He had first instructed Lucette as to the part she was to play, and that young woman, anxious once more to stand well with her employer, had exerted herself to her utmost, entirely succeeding in her mission. This was to obtain some of the writing of the child. "Go to the house again," Mr. Barnes had suggested, "and get into conversation with that same servant who met you at the door on your first visit. Then in some manner obtain a specimen of the child's writing. An old copy-book would be just the thing." Lucette carried out these instructions to the letter, and by bribing the servant girl at the school obtained exactly what the detective had suggested, a copy-book in which little Rose Mitchel had practised writing.

Armed with this, and selecting a specimen, which seemed best suited to his purpose, Mr. Barnes next bribed the mail boy at the Fifth Avenue Hotel to examine all letters addressed to Mr. Mitchel until he should find one in the same hand. It was not until early in March that this patient work resulted in success. Then one day the boy reported to Mr. Barnes that the expected letter had at length arrived. The post-mark indicated that it had been mailed at East Orange, New Jersey.

"So that is where the little bird is hidden," said Mr. Barnes to himself when this information reached him. Summoning Lucette, he sent her to East Orange with these instructions:

"Now, my girl, I'll give you another chance to redeem yourself. You are to go to East Orange and find that child. The most promising plan is through the post-office. I will give you a note to the postmaster that will aid you. Should a letter be sent to the child either by Mitchel himself or by Miss Remsen, you will learn of it through the postmaster. The rest of course will be simple."

"But suppose," said Lucette, "that the child's letters are directed under cover to the parties with whom she is living? What then?"

"Why, stupid, that is what I send you down there for. As the postmaster is an acquaintance of mine, I could get the address, should it reach him, without having you there. But that is only a faint hope. We know that the child is in East Orange. East Orange has just so many houses. You must examine every one if necessary. Now go, and if you don't find the child, I have no further need of you. I give you this commission partly as a chance to redeem your other mistake, and partly because you have seen the child once and could recognize her."

"I'll find her," said Lucette, and she departed.

A week later Mr. Barnes was in New Orleans, where he devoted himself to discovering, if possible, the early histories of Mr. Mitchel and the murdered woman. Weeks passed and he made no progress.

One morning in the latter part of April he was feeling somewhat despondent over his ill success, when, as he glanced listlessly through the Picayune, the following paragraph caught his eye:

"Mr. Barnes, the celebrated New York detective, is in the city and stopping at the St. Charles Hotel. It is believed that he is in search of a desperate criminal, and probably the news-loving world will soon be treated to one of the famous detective's clever elucidations of some mysterious crime."

This both annoyed and puzzled Mr. Barnes. He had not told any one his true name, and could not guess how the reporters had found out his identity. Whilst he was thinking of it a card was brought to him which bore the name

"Richard Sefton."

He directed that the gentleman should be shown to his room, and soon after a man of about thirty-five, with dark complexion, black hair, and keen hazel eyes, entered, bowing politely and saying:

"This is Mr. Barnes, I believe."

"Be seated, Mr. Sefton," said Mr. Barnes, coldly, "and then tell me why you believe me to be Mr. Barnes when I am registered as James Morton."

"I do not believe you to be Mr. Barnes," said the other, coolly seating himself. "I was inaccurate in using that expression. I know that you are Mr. Barnes."

"Oh! You do! And how, pray, do you know that I am Mr. Barnes?"

"Because it is my business to know people. I am a detective like yourself. I have come to help you."

"You have come to help me! You are very kind I am sure. But since you are so very clever, perhaps you would not mind telling me how you know that I need help, and in what direction."

"With pleasure. You need help because, pardon my saying it, you are working on a case in which time is precious to you, and you have already wasted about six weeks. I say wasted, because you have learned nothing that will aid you in your search."

"In my search for what?"

"Mr. Barnes, you are not over-cordial. There should be some fraternal courtesy between us. I have come to you as a friend, honestly wishing to aid you. I have known that you were in the city for some time. I have heard of you of course. Who in our business has not? Therefore I have spent a great deal of spare time watching you. I did so simply to notice, and perhaps to learn something from, your methods. In this way I became acquainted with the fact, first, that you are interested in the name Mitchel, and secondly in the name Leroy. I have simply put the two together and jumped to the conclusion that you are trying to learn something about Leroy Mitchel. Am I right?"

"Before I reply to you, Mr. Sefton, I must have more assurance of your good-will and responsibility. How do I know that you are a detective at all?"

"Quite right! Here is my badge. I am in the department here."

"Very well so far, but now how can you prove that you have any good reason for assisting me?"

"You are a hard man to help, I declare. Why, what object but a friendly one can I have?"

"I am not prepared to answer that at present. Perhaps I shall be able to do so later."

"Oh, very well! You can look me up all you want to. I can stand it, I assure you. But really I did want to help, though of course I have no right to intrude. As you say you do not need me, why I – "

"I did not say that I would not accept your aid. You must not think me ungracious. I am simply a detective, and careful from habit. I certainly should not speak confidentially to a man that I meet for the first time, and so disclose any of my own purposes. But it is different with you. You must have had a definite idea, by which you expect to give me assistance, or you would not have come here. If you are earnest and honest, I see no reason why you should not disclose the main purpose of your visit at once."

"If only to prove my honesty, I will do so. I believe you are looking for Leroy Mitchel. If so I can tell you how to find him in a few hours, or at the worst in a day or two."

"You know of a Leroy Mitchel, who is now in this city?"

"I do. He is over in Algiers, a worker in one of the car houses. He is a common drunken brute, and that is the only reason why there would be any difficulty about finding him. When he is sober he is easy to see, but as soon as he gets some money he is off on another spree."

"Do you know of a woman by the name of Rose Mitchel?"

"Certainly. That is, I did know such a woman once. But she has not been in New Orleans for years. At one time any one could have given you her address. I see now that this man is the one whom you want, for once he passed as this woman's husband."

"You are sure of this?"

"Positive."

"When and where can I see this man?"

"He works in the shops of the Louisiana and Texas Railroad over in Algiers. You can find him through the foreman."

"Mr. Sefton, it may be that you have given me information which will be of service to me. If so you will not regret it. I will myself examine into the matter. For the present, if I do not make a confident of you, you must attribute it to caution rather than to distrust."

"Oh, I am not easily offended. I would act in the same manner in your place. But you will find that I am your friend. You can count on me to aid you on demand. I won't trouble you again till you send for me. A note to head-quarters will reach me quickest. Good-morning."

"Good-morning, Mr. Sefton, and thank you." Mr. Barnes extended his hand, feeling that perhaps he had been unnecessarily discourteous.

Mr. Sefton took it with that genial smile of friendship so common to the native Southerner.

Left alone, Mr. Barnes at once prepared for a trip to Algiers, determined not to let any more time be lost. He reached the shops just after the men had knocked off for luncheon. The foreman, however, told him that Leroy Mitchel had been at work in the morning, so he waited patiently.

When the men came back to resume work, the foreman pointed out a man who he said was Leroy Mitchel. The fellow had a bad face, and if ever he was a gentleman he had sunk so low through drink that no evidence of it remained in his appearance. Mr. Barnes went up to him and asked when he could have a talk with him.

"Now, if you pay for it," replied the man insolently.

"What do you mean?" asked the detective.

"Just what I say," said the other. "We get our pay here by the hour, and if you want my time why you'll have to pay for it at union rates," and he laughed as though a good joke had been propounded.

"Then," said Mr. Barnes, taking in the kind of a man with whom he had to deal, "I'll engage you on a job that I have for you, and pay you double wages as long as I use you."

"Now you are talking," said the fellow. "Where'll we go?"

"I think I'll take you to my hotel." And thither they proceeded. Up in his own room again, Mr. Barnes felt at ease, whilst his companion certainly made himself comfortable, selecting a rocking-chair, and putting his feet up on the window-sill.

"Now then," began Mr. Barnes, "I want to ask you a few questions. Are you prepared to answer them?"

"That will depend on what they are. If you don't ask impertinent questions, or ones that I think I ought to get more than double wages for answering, why, I am with you."

"In the first place, then, are you willing to say whether you ever knew a woman who called herself Rose Mitchel?"

"Well, rather. I lived with her till she broke me."

"Do you know where she is now?"

"I don't, and I don't care to."

"Suppose I were to tell you that she is dead, and that she had left a hundred thousand dollars which is unclaimed?"

The man jumped to his feet as though shot, and stood staring at the detective. He gave a long, low whistle, and a keen, tricky gleam came into his eye, which Mr. Barnes noted. At length he spoke:

"Are you giving me this straight?"

"I am telling you the truth. The woman is dead, and that amount of property is where I can get it for the man who can prove that he is entitled to it."

"And who would that be?" He waited eagerly for the reply, and Mr. Barnes saw that he was playing trump cards.

"Why, Mr. Mitchel, that is what I am down here for. You see, I thought the party would be willing to pay me a good commission for proving him the heir, and that is why I am hunting him up. I started out with the idea that I might find her husband. He would have a claim."

"I see." Saying which, he sat down and seemed lost in thought. The detective deemed it well to wait for him to speak again, which he did.

"See here," he exclaimed; "how much do you want for getting this money for me?"

"I cannot get it at all unless you are the woman's husband," replied the detective.

"Well I am her husband. Didn't I tell you I lived with her till she broke me?"

"Yes, but are you legally married to her?"

"Why, to be sure. Don't I tell you I am her husband?"

"Then, in the name of the law, I arrest you," said Mr. Barnes, suddenly rising and standing over the man.

"Arrest me," said the fellow, jumping up, pale with fright. "What for?"

"Rose Mitchel has been murdered, and the man who killed her has confessed that he was hired to do it by you."

"He is a blasted liar."

"I hope so for your sake. But as you admit that you are her husband, you are the man we are looking for. I'll have to take you to New York."

"But, I say," said the fellow, now thoroughly alarmed, "there is a big mistake here. I've been lying to you; I'm not the woman's husband, and my name is not Mitchel."

"That won't do, my man. I had you pointed out to me by Sefton, the detective here."

"But he is the very man that hired me to pass off as Mitchel to you."

Mr. Barnes chuckled as he found his ruse successful. He had suspected all along that the New Orleans detective was trying to lead him off on a wrong scent, and now thought he saw a chance to turn the tables upon him and get some valuable information.

"That is a very thin story," said he, "but if you will tell me all you know, perhaps I may believe you."

"You bet I'll give you the whole story straight, to get out of this scrape. In the first place, my name is Arthur Chambers. I was up in the world once, had money, and was respectable. But drink changed all that. Now anybody can buy me for a few dollars, and that is what Sefton did. He came to me about a week ago, and told me that a detective was down here from up north nosing around for this Mitchel. He said it was important to an employer of his up in New York to have this detective balked; that he was hired to do it, and to make him lose time; that time, in some way, was an important item."

"You say," interrupted Mr. Barnes, "that Sefton told you he was hired by some one in New York to throw me off the scent?"

"That's what he said," replied Chambers. Mr. Barnes easily guessed who was employing Sefton, and once more he paid the tribute of admiration for the caution and ingenious scheming of Mr. Mitchel.

"Go on," said the detective.

"There an't much more to tell. Sefton hired me to play off that I was Mitchel, and he gave me a cock-and-bull yarn to feed you with about a woman named Rose Mitchel."

"What was that story?"

"Say, look here," said Chambers, his confidence and cunning returning as he felt himself out of danger of arrest, "you don't want that fairy tale. You would rather have the true story, wouldn't you?"