An Artist in Crime

"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 skilful 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 two hundred dollars 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 towards 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 twenty-four or five 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 came 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 upstairs 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 fourteen 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 upstairs 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.

CHAPTER VIII.

LUCETTE

Two days after the events just related, Emily Remsen's maid announced that she had just received news that her mother was very ill, and that she had been notified to go to her at once. Her mother, she said, lived in Elizabeth, New Jersey. She wished to go at the earliest possible moment, and begged that her cousin, Lucette, should be allowed to attend to her duties till her return, which she hoped would be in a very few days. Asked if her cousin was competent, she said yes, and especially apt at arranging the hair, having served an apprenticeship with a French hair-dresser. Indeed the girl's real name was Lucy, but she had changed it to Lucette, to pretend that being French she was necessarily a good maid.

In Miss Remsen's mind this changing of her name was nothing in the girl's favor; but as her own maid was thus suddenly taken from her, and as this other was offered at once, she agreed to the proposal.

Lucette arrived during the afternoon, and Miss Remsen was delighted with her. Expecting a talkative, intrusive person, assuming Frenchified mannerisms, she was surprised to find a quiet unpretentious creature, who immediately showed herself to be well acquainted with the duties required of her. Within the first twenty-four hours she found herself so much better served than by her absent maid, that she almost wished that the mother would require her for a long time. Dora, too, was charmed with Lucette.

"Queen," said she the next afternoon, "what do you think of your new maid?"

"Who? – Lucette?" answered the sister. "O I think she does very well."

"Does very well? Why, Queen, she is a jewel. If you do not appreciate her, I wish you would bequeath her to me when Sarah returns."

"O ho! So my young miss wants a maid to herself, does she?"

"O no! Not especially, but I want to keep Lucette in the family. She is a treasure. Dressing the hair is not her only accomplishment either, though I never saw yours look more beautiful. She has just arranged the table for our 'afternoon tea,' and I never saw anything like it. It is just wonderful what that girl can do with a napkin in the way of decoration."

"O yes," said Emily, "Lucette is clever; but don't let her know that we think so. It might make her less valuable. Now tell me, Dora dear, who is coming this afternoon?"

"Oh! The usual crush I suppose."

"Including Mr. Randolph?"

"Queen, there is a mystery about him. Let me tell you. In the first place, he has not been here for over a week, and then yesterday I saw him coming down Fifth Avenue, and, would you believe it? just as I was about to bow to him, he turned down a side street."

"He did not see you, my dear, or he surely would have spoken. He would have been too glad."

"Well, if he did not see me, he must have suddenly contracted near-sightedness; that is all I have to say."

Shortly after, company began to arrive, and very soon the rooms were filled by a crowd which is aptly described by the term used by Dora. One goes to these affairs partly from duty and partly from habit. One leaves mainly from the instinctive sense of self-preservation inherent in all.

Dora was besieged by a number of admirers, and took pleasure in avoiding Mr. Randolph, who was assiduous in his attentions. He seemed anxious to get her off into the seclusion of a corner, a scheme which the young lady frustrated without appearing to do so.

Mr. Thauret was also present, though he did not remain very long. He chatted a short time with Emily on conventional subjects, and then worked his way to the side of Dora, where he lingered longer. He said several pretty things to her, such as she had heard already in different forms from other men, but with just a tone, which seemed to indicate that he spoke from his heart rather than from the mere passing fancy of pleasing. It was very skilfully done. There was so little of it, that no one, certainly not an inexperienced girl like Dora, could suspect that it was all studied. Yet after he had gone, and the company was thinning out, Mr. Randolph found his long-sought opportunity, and sat down for a tête-à-tête with Dora. He began at once.

"Miss Dora, why do you allow a cad like that Frenchman to make love to you?"

"Are you alluding to my friend, Mr. Thauret?" She accentuated the word "friend" merely to exasperate Mr. Randolph, and succeeded admirably.

"He is not your friend. In my opinion, he is nobody's friend but his own."

"That has been said of so many, that it is no new idea."

"But do be serious, Miss Dora. You must not allow this fellow to worm his way into your circle, and more than all, you must not allow him to make love to you."

"You surprise me, Mr. Randolph. I had no idea that Mr. Thauret was making love to me. I could relate everything that he said, and it would scarcely bear out your assumption."

"That is only his cunning. He is too shrewd to speak plainly, so soon"; and yet this young philosopher was not wise enough to see that he was damaging his own cause by putting ideas into the girl's mind which had not yet entered there.

"Why, Mr. Randolph, you are really becoming amusing. You are like Don Quixote fighting windmills. You imagine a condition, and then give me a warning. It is entirely unnecessary, I assure you. Mr. Thauret was not acting in any such way as you impute to him."

"You are not angry with me, I hope. You know what prompted me to speak?"

"No, I fear I am not so clever as you at reading other people's motives."

"But surely you must have guessed that – "

"Guessed what?" Dora looked at him so candidly, that he was abashed. It was his opportunity to declare himself, and he might have done so, had not Mr. Mitchel entered the room at that moment. Seeing him, Mr. Randolph thought of the peculiar position he would be in if his friend should be proven to be a criminal. For this reason he hesitated, and thus lost a chance which did not recur again for a very long time. He replied in a jesting tone, and soon after left the house.

The company had departed. Dora had gone to her own room, leaving Mr. Mitchel and Emily alone together.

"Emily, my Queen," said Mr. Mitchel, taking one of her hands caressingly within both of his, as they sat upon a tête-à-tête sofa, "I almost believe that I am dreaming when I think that you love me."

"Why so, Roy?"

"Listen, little woman. I am in an odd mood to-night, and I wish very much to talk to you. May I?"

For answer she touched him lightly, lovingly, on the face with her disengaged hand, and bowed assent.

"Then listen while I make my confession. I am different from other men, much as I count you different from all women. I have met many, in all the capitals of Europe, and here in my own country. I have never been affected by any, as I was by you. In the first instant of meeting you, I had chosen you for my wife. When I asked for you, I had not the least idea that you would refuse, until having spoken, I saw the bold audacity of my words, and for half an instant the idea lived with me that I was too presumptuous."

"You were not, my Roy. Like you I have passed lovers by, as unaffected as by the ocean breezes. When I met you, I said to myself: 'This is my master.'"

"God bless you, Emily. Let me continue. I have chosen you to be my wife. As heaven is my witness, I shall never deceive you in aught. But, – and this is the hard test which your love must endure – I may be compelled at times to keep you in ignorance of some things. Do you think that your love is great enough to believe that when I do so it is from love of you, that I keep a secret from you?"

"Roy, perhaps this is conceit, but if so, still I say it. A weaker love than mine would say to you, 'I trust you, but I love you so that you need not hesitate to share your secrets with me.' I tell you that I trust you implicitly. That I am content to hear your secrets or not, as your own judgment and love for me shall decide."

"I knew that you would speak so. Had you said less I should have been disappointed. I will tell you then at once, that there is a secret in my life which I have shared with no one, and which I am not willing yet to reveal to you. Are you still content?"

"Do you doubt it? Do you think that I would make an assertion only to draw back from my boast as soon as tried?"

"No, my Queen, but it is asking much to ask a woman to marry whilst there is a secret which cannot be told. Especially when there are those who may believe that there is shame or worse, concealed."

"No one would dare to so misjudge you!"

"Indeed, but you are mistaken. There are those who do not count me as irreproachable as I may seem to you. What if I were to tell you that a detective watches me day and night?"

"Oho? That would not frighten me. You have explained all about your wager. I suppose Mr. Barnes is keeping an eye on you. Is that it?"

"Partly that, and partly because he thinks that I am connected with this murdered woman. To a certain extent he is right."

"You mean that you knew her?"

"Yes." Mr. Mitchel paused to see whether she would ask another question after his admission. But she meant all that she had said when asserting that she trusted him. She remained silent. Mr. Mitchel continued: "Naturally Mr. Barnes is desirous of learning how much I know. There are urgent reasons why I do not wish him to do so. You have it in your power to aid me."

"I will do so!"

"You have not heard what it is that I wish."

"I do not care what it is. I will do it if you ask me."

"You are worthy of my love." He drew her gently towards him, and kissed her lightly on the lips. "I say it not in egotism, for I love you as much as man may. Were you unworthy – I should never love again."

"You may trust me, Roy." Her words were simple, but there was a passion of truth contained in their utterance.

"I will tell you at once, what I wish. For it must be done promptly. You must be ready – Who is that?"

Mr. Mitchel spoke the last two words in a sharp tone, rising from his seat and taking a step forward. The large room was but dimly lighted, the gas having been lowered to please Emily who abhorred well-lighted rooms. At the further end some one was standing, and had attracted Mr. Mitchel's attention. It was Lucette, and she replied at once:

"Your mother sent me to know if you are ready for supper, Miss Emily."

"Say that we will be in, in a few minutes," replied Emily, and Lucette left the room.

"Who is that girl?" asked Mr. Mitchel.

Emily explained how the new maid had been engaged and Mr. Mitchel speaking in a tone louder than was really necessary, said:

"She seems to be a quiet, good girl. Rather too quiet, for she startled me coming in so noiselessly. Shall we go in? What I have to tell you will keep. It is something I wish you to do for me the day after to-morrow."

After supper Mr. Mitchel took the two girls and their mother to the theatre, much to the delight of the latter, who was always shocked whenever Emily went unattended by a chaperone. The party walked going and coming, and as Dora and her mother were ahead, Mr. Mitchel had ample opportunity to explain to his fiancée the favor which he wished her to do for him. When leaving the house that night he said:

"You will not see me again for a couple of days. Keep well till then."

Lucette, who had overheard this remark, was, therefore, rather astonished to see Mr. Mitchel walk in the next morning as early as ten o'clock. She was still more surprised to have her mistress announce that she was going out. What puzzled her most of all was that Emily went out alone, leaving Mr. Mitchel in the parlor. In fact this seemed to give her so much food for reflection, that as though struck by the conclusions arrived at, she herself prepared to go out. As she was passing along the hall, however, the parlor door opened and Mr. Mitchel confronted her.

"Where are you going, Lucette?"

"I have an errand to do, sir," she replied with a slight tremor.

"Come into the parlor, first. I wish to speak to you." She felt compelled to obey, and walked into the room, Mr. Mitchel opening the door and waiting for her to pass through. He then followed, after closing the door behind him, locking it and taking the key from the lock.

"Why did you do that?" asked Lucette angrily.

"You forget yourself, Lucette. You are a servant, and good servants such as you have proven that you know how to be, never ask questions. However, I will answer you. I locked the door because I do not wish you to get out of this room."

"I won't be locked in here with you. I am a respectable girl."

"No one doubts it. You need not get excited, I am not going to hurt you in any way."

"Then why have you brought me in here?"

"Simply to keep you here till – well, say till twelve o'clock. That is about two hours. Do you mind?"

"Yes, I do mind. I won't be kept in here alone with you for two hours."

"You amuse me. How will you prevent it?"

Lucette bit her lip, but said nothing. She saw that there was no help for her. She might scream, of course, but Mrs. Remsen and Dora had gone out before Emily. She and Mr. Mitchel were alone in the apartment. She might attract the attention of the janitor, or of people in the street. As this idea occurred to her she glanced toward the window. Mr. Mitchel divined her thoughts in a moment.

"Don't try screaming, Lucette," said he, "for if you do, I will be compelled to gag you. You will find that very uncomfortable for two hours."

"Will you tell me why you wish to keep me here?"

"I thought I did tell you. The fact is, I do not wish you to do that little errand of yours."

"I don't understand you."

"Oh, yes, you do. You are not such a fool as all that. Now, my girl, you may as well bow to the inevitable. Make yourself comfortable till twelve. Read the paper, if you wish. There is an interesting account of the murder case. The woman, you know, who was killed in the flat upstairs. Have you followed it?"

"No, I have not," she replied, snappishly.

"That is strange. Do you know, I took you to be just the person who would have a deep interest in that kind of thing."

"Well, I am not."

For the next two hours not a word passed. Mr. Mitchel sat in a large arm-chair and simply watched the girl with an aggravating smile upon his face. In fact the smile was so aggravating, that after encountering it a few minutes, Lucette did not look at him again, but rivetted her gaze upon the opposite side of the street. At last the clock chimed twelve. Instantly the girl arose.

"May I go now?"

"Yes, Lucette, you may go now – and do your little errand – that is if it is not too late. And by the way, Lucette, Miss Remsen asked me to say to you that she will not need your services after to-day."

"Do you mean that I am discharged?"

"Not exactly that. I said you would not be needed. You see Miss Remsen thinks that you come into and go out of rooms with too little noise. She is very nervous, and it startles her to find you in her presence, without having heard you enter."

"You are a devil!" replied Lucette in a passion, as she darted through the door, which Mr. Mitchel had unlocked, and ran down-stairs and out of the house.

"I was right," thought Mr. Mitchel, as he sat down once more.

Lucette hurried across to Broadway and went into the district telegraph office at the corner. Hastily scribbling a few lines on a blank, she asked for a boy, and gave him a coin with the instruction to "hurry." She then went down to Madison Square and waited there – I was about to write, patiently – but really the word would not apply. She sat on a bench. Jumped up in less than five minutes, walked about for awhile, and then sat down again, repeating this over and over, till it was plain that she was in a bad humor, – a very bad humor.

At last she saw a man approaching her, and hurried to meet him. It was Mr. Barnes. He, too, looked excited.

"Well, what is it? Why are you here?" he asked.

"I am discharged!"

"Discharged? Why?"

"I don't know why, but that devil Mitchel is at the bottom of it. He locked me up for two hours this morning, and then told me Miss Remsen would not need me any further. I felt like scratching his eyes out." She then told the story to the detective, winding up with, "From what I did catch of their conversation last night I think he has made a confidant of his sweetheart. He asked her to help him and just as he was about to tell her what to do, somehow he saw me and closed up like a clam. I think now it had something to do with the child."

"By heaven, you are right. I see it all. I had just returned from that house, when I got your note and came up here. I went to the school this morning pretending that I wished to place a child there. Then, after a while, I asked if my friend Mr. Mitchel's daughter, Rose, was not at the school. 'Yes,' replied the woman in charge, 'but she has just left us.' 'Left you,' said I, 'when?' 'About ten minutes ago. Her mother called for her in a carriage and took her away.' Don't you see, whilst you were locked in that room, Miss Remsen went down and removed the child."

"But Miss Remsen is not her mother?"

"No, stupid. Haven't you any sense left at all? Are you going to be a bungler all your life? This comes of your disobedience. You let Mitchel see you in the elevated train, and now you find out how smart you were."

"Nonsense, he never recognized me."

"He did. I was a fool to trust such an important matter to a woman."

"Oh! were you? Well that woman is not such a fool as you think. I have that button back."

"Ah! Good! How did you manage it?"

"They all went to the theatre last night, and I just hunted through Miss Remsen's things till I found it, in one of her jewel-cases. Here it is." Saying which, she handed to the detective the cameo button which he had found in the room where the murder had been committed. He saw that it was the same, and was somewhat comforted to have it back.