A Chance Meeting.
Several years ago I was detailed to undertake the solution of a mystery
surrounding a robbery which had baffled the police for a month or more.
Then two detectives had been set at work upon it and had failed to
locate the thief. I was given the case. I did not exactly succeed in
finding the thief, but I brought him to justice, just the same. How,
you shall see.
The house of Mr. Bond had been broken into and a large amount of
jewelry stolen. Among the latter was a handsome gold watch belonging
to the daughter of Mr. Bond. It had been a birthday present from her
mother, and was highly prized by her. Her father offered a large reward
for its recovery. I called at the home of Mr. Bond to get a description
of the missing jewelry and whatever other information the family could
give me. This was little enough. The jewelry had been stolen and no
trace of the thief was to be found. That was all. I was expected, with
no clue whatever to work upon, to ferret out and bring the thief to
justice, and at the same time recover Miss Bond’s watch. The only
thing that the thief had left behind him was a piece of paper on which
was written the words:
“Remember the poor.” I did not regard this as being of any importance,
and gave it little or no thought.
I was a young man at the time, unmarried, and, as it may be guessed,
susceptible to the charms of pretty girls. Miss Bond--Clara--was a
pretty girl, and I may as well confess, I fell in love with her at
first sight. I also made an impression upon her. This caused me all the
more eagerly to work up the case and try to bring it to a successful
conclusion. Who knows, thought I, what may be at the end of it? I made
a good many visits to the Bond house, nominally to seek information,
in reality to gaze upon the face of the charming Miss Bond. My search
for the thief did not progress very favorably. In fact, I had made no
progress whatever. It promised to remain an unsolved mystery. I could
not find the thief. Now comes the strange part of the story--how the
thief found me. I had just boarded a railway train when a man followed
me, and quietly slipped into the seat next to me. He carried a small
bag which he hid under the seat. I also had a bag somewhat similar to
his own.
“Well, Jimmy,” he remarked, “how did you succeed?”
“First rate,” I returned, in a whisper, so as not to betray my identity
by my voice. It was clear that I was in conversation with a thief--he
did not look to my well-trained eyes like an honest man--and I must
keep up the deception.
“Got the swag?” he asked.
I merely tapped my bag for reply. It was nearly dusk and the car lamps
had not been lighted. My companion had not yet discovered his mistake.
I didn’t feel exactly flattered at being mistaken, even in the half
light, for a thief.
“How with you?” I asked.
“Aint done much since I tapped ‘Remember the poor.’”
“Remember the poor!” The words flashed across my mind. Was I on the
track of the thief at last?
“Got the watch yet?” I asked.
“Yes, don’t dare to try to get rid of it. Where is Baggy John, now?”
What the deuce was I to say? Just then a man came down the car aisle.
I saw at once it was the man whom my companion had really expected to
meet. The resemblance between us was remarkable. My companion looked
from one to the other and then tried to get away. Not before I had a
pair of hand-cuffs encircling his wrists, however.
That is how I caught the thief, got my promotion, the reward, and last,
but by no means least, my wife.
How Was She Killed?
“If I ever do it, I’ll do it in that way.”
These were the words I accidentally overheard one day, many years
ago, as I was walking along the beach at one of our celebrated summer
resorts. The person who uttered the above mentioned remark, a young
man of about 28 or 30, spoke only half aloud and was evidently unaware
that there was anyone within hearing distance. It was not my purpose
to play eavesdropper. I was in a thoughtful mood myself, and with my
head bowed almost upon my breast I had overtaken the young man and
overheard his words. He had been reading a paper-covered novel of the
sensational kind. As I passed him I glanced at the title. It was, “How
was she killed?” I passed on my way as if I had not heard anything,
and the young man turned to his book, in which he was evidently much
interested. I had taken a sufficiently good look at the man to enable
me to recognize him again. My memory for faces and forms is very good.
On my return to the hotel I saw a number of copies of “How Was She
Killed?” on sale. Partly out of curiosity I bought one and read it. I
was afterward glad I did so.
Two years after the incident just narrated I was detailed to undertake
the solution of a mystery surrounding the death of an unknown young
lady. She had been found dead in the woods. It looked like a case of
suicide by poison, as there were no marks of any kind upon the body to
show that death had been the result of violence. An examination of the
stomach was held, but there was no trace of poison in it. It was in a
perfectly healthy condition. There was nothing to show that death had
resulted from natural causes. If it was a case of suicide, how had the
act been committed; if of murder, how had the murderer done his work?
No one claimed the body and it lay for several days in the morgue.
The examination of the doctors and others had evidently not been of a
very thorough nature. I examined the body myself very carefully and
found what they had apparently overlooked--a tiny mark near the heart,
so small that at first sight it was not observable. At my request the
heart was opened and examined. The result was as I had expected. The
organ contained a fine steel needle, pointed at both ends. This was
what had caused the unfortunate woman’s death. She had been murdered,
and the murderer had done his work in such a manner as to allay all
suspicion--almost. I immediately thought of the sensational novel, “How
Was She Killed?” The victim in that story had met her death at the
hands of her lover in exactly this way. Had this young lady a lover or
any one who wished to get her out of the way? It was a week before she
was identified; and when she was, her lover--a scheming rascal--was
found to be no other than the man I had encountered two years before
and had overheard make the remark with which this story opens. It was
an easy task to prove him guilty of the murder of his sweetheart, and
he saved himself from the gallows only by committing suicide after his
trial and conviction.
It Was Not Murder.
Old Farmer Bunker lived alone. His wife had died years ago and he had
never remarried. He had no children. People said he ought not to live
alone, that something was certain to happen to him; robbers would break
into his house and steal his valuables and perhaps kill him. For once
the people happened, so it seemed, to be right. One morning Mr. Bunker
was found dead in his bed, and an ugly knife wound over the heart
seemed to tell only too plainly what had been the cause of his death.
An autopsy was not considered necessary. The services of a detective
rather than those of the medical examiner were called into requisition.
I was the detective detailed to look into the case. The first thought
was that robbery had been committed. An examination of the house failed
to show any evidence that such had been the intention of the murderer.
Apparently nothing had been disturbed. A bureau drawer containing a
large sum of money had not even been opened. Then it was thought that
the old man must have committed suicide. A search was made for the
implement with which he had committed the deed, but it was nowhere to
be found. It was certain that death had been almost instantaneous, and
of course Mr. Bunker could not have had time to hide the instrument of
self-destruction. It was, therefore, unmistakably a case of murder.
I began an immediate and most thorough and systematic search for the
murderer. Although Mr. Bunker had lived alone he was neither a miser
nor a crank, and did not appear to have had an enemy in the world. The
crowds that flocked to the house came to view the body of their old
friend, and to express a wish that his murderer be brought to speedy
justice. Motives of mere curiosity did not actuate many of them. From
several of them I gathered a number of clues, all of which pointed to
one conclusion, namely, that a tramp had been seen coming from the
direction of the Bunker farm early in the morning of the day on which
the body of Mr. Bunker had been found. I now directed my efforts to
trace and locate the tramp. On the next day I had him in custody. He
had not gone far. He made some very extraordinary statements. He said
that Mr. Bunker was his friend, and that he had not killed him. When
searched he had in his possession over $20 in bills. He was also known
to have sent $30 to somebody in Virginia. This money he claimed had
been given to him by Mr. Bunker. He furthermore claimed that he was not
a tramp but a machinist in search of work.
“Was an autopsy held upon the body of Mr. Bunker?” inquired the
suspected man.
“No; the cause of death was too plainly apparent.”
“I thought as much. If an autopsy had been held it would have shown
that Mr. Bunker died a natural death.”
I was impressed with the man’s sincerity. He seemed to be no ordinary
tramp, and I was convinced that he was telling the truth, as he
believed it.
At my request an autopsy was held. The result of it went to prove that
Mr. Bunker’s death occurred from apoplexy, and he was dead several
hours before the knife wound in the heart had been inflicted.
“You evidently did not kill Mr. Bunker,” I said, “but do you know
anything about the knife wound which we supposed caused the death?”
“Yes,” replied the tramp, “I inflicted it myself.”
“You! Why did you do it?”
“I’ll tell you.”
And he told the following story: