Artie’s “Failure” as a Detective
Smithers did not allow his acquaintance with Guy Burton to wax cold
during the latter’s stay in London. He was diligent in his efforts to
make himself agreeable to the young American. Guy learned from
incidental sources that the man was proprietor of a jewelry store in
Bond street and was credited with doing a large business. Bond street is
the center of the retail jewelry trade in London and has many fine
stores.
This jeweler owned a motor car and passed much of his leisure time
wearing out tires and pavements. On the Saturday afternoon following the
adventure with the highwayman in the fog, he asked Guy to take a spin
with him, and the invitation was accepted. They got an early start and
bowled over the boulevards to the southwest, passing through Batterson
Park and Wimbledon Park east to Bromley, and back to Trafalgar Square by
way of Greenwich. The car was a low, torpedo-shaped machine, which
skimmed along the ground as if racing to the destruction of a foreign
fleet. The owner took much delight in the “dangerous” appearance of his
“Shark,” as he named the car.
“This is my hobby,” he remarked as they spun along at a rate that caused
Guy to fear they would be arrested for speeding. “Every Englishman has a
hobby, you know.”
“I thought most Englishmen’s hobby was riding horses,” replied Guy. “I
was a little surprised to find the automobiles crowding the horses off
the earth here just the same as in the United States.”
“Sure they are. Before long there won’t be any horses in London at all.”
“Will Englishmen hunt foxes in automobiles?” asked Guy with seeming
innocence.
“Hardly,” laughed Smithers. “There’ll always be horses for the
sportsmen. But as a useful animal, the horse has seen his best days
here. By the way, have you got a hobby? I suppose if you have, it’s a
wild one, since you live in an Indian country,” he added with a twinkle.
“Not so very,” assured Guy. “But I’ve a sort of a hobby that’s full of
thrills.”
“I thought so. What is it?”
“Wireless Telegraphy.”
“Good! Got an outfit?”
“Yes, two of ’em—my brother and I have. We’re gettin’ to be experts. My
brother’s better’n I am. We got interested in wireless during the war,
reading about how amateurs helped the government spot wireless spies.”
Smithers listened eagerly to Guy’s statement and asked him a good many
questions. The latter was an enthusiast and was glad to keep the
discussion going as long as his companion did not appear to be bored.
“How’re you getting along with your doctor?” inquired the man finally
after they had exhausted the wireless subject.
“Fine. I won’t have to have an operation. Dr. Sprague has done some
great work on my eyes.”
“I congratulate you. How long do you expect to remain in London yet?”
“Two or three weeks.”
“Going back to New York direct?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know but you’d travel on the continent before returning.”
“No, we didn’t come prepared for that. Besides, mother’s in a hurry to
get back. She’d like to visit some of the war scenes, but she’d want the
whole family along.”
“How many in your family?”
“Five—two boys, a girl, and father an’ mother.”
It was seven o’clock when they reached the hotel again, and both were
hungry. Mrs. Burton had already dined and Smithers insisted on Guy’s
eating with him. As they left the dining room they met Artie Fletcher in
the lobby, where they passed the time of day (or night), and then the
jeweler left the boys together and went to his room.
Guy told his friend about his drive with Smithers and remarked that he
wished Artie might have accompanied them. But the young clerk had a
story to tell of an interesting experience of his own that afternoon.
“I’m glad I didn’t go,” he said. “Anyway, I had to work an’ couldn’t.
But you can’t guess who I saw today.”
“I give up. Who was it?”
“Mr. Highwayman of the mysterious mist.”
“What!”
“That polite gentleman who shoved a gun in our faces and asked for our
bonds an’ mortgages.”
“You don’t say!”
Artie laughed.
“I knew you’d be excited,” he said.
“How do you know who it was?” asked Guy incredulously. “We couldn’t see
’is face in the fog.”
“I recognized ’is voice.”
“Is that all?”
“No, but that’s enough. Two men never had his voice—a combination of a
squeak and a roar. You couldn’t miss it among a million.”
“I remember it all right,” said Guy. “But that isn’t proof enough. You
couldn’t have ’im arrested on that.”
“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of having ’im arrested. He didn’t get anything
from us. I only had some fun with ’im.”
“How? What kind o’ looking fellow was he?”
“That’s the funny part about ’im. He looks like a gentleman—prosperous.
Quite dignified; wears fine clothes, a diamond ring and a dandy
solitaire stud.”
“Where’d you see ’im?”
“At the desk. He came in an’ asked for—who’d you think he asked
for?—Guess.”
“Me,” laughed Guy.
“No, you’re not important enough. Guess again.”
“Mr. Smithers?”
“Right.”
“You don’t say! What’d he want to see him for?”
“I don’t know. But I made use of a guess to have some fun.”
“What was it?”
“That he wanted to get ’is revolver back. I might ’a’ lost my job if I
hadn’t been mighty careful.”
“What’d you do?”
“When he came to the desk and asked for Smithers, I was sure who he was
right away. If I’d stopped to think, I might not ’a’ been so sure, and
I’m glad now I didn’t stop.”
“What did you do?” repeated Guy impatiently.
“I leaned over—this way—so my face almost touched his, and said: ‘Say,
mister, did you lose a revolver in the fog the other night?’”
“What did he do?”
“I thought he was going to drop,” replied Artie with a smart air. “I
jumped back quick so ’t could look at ’im, an’ ’is face got as pale as a
corpse. He spit out a few noises, an’ then sputtered:
“‘Did I lose a revolver in the fog? What makes you ask that question?’
“‘I was just wondering if you owned the one Mr. Smithers found,’ I
replied.
“He was cool now and got his color back.
“‘Did Smithers find a gun?’ he asked; and I told him to ask Smithers
when he saw ’im.”
“Wha’ ’d he say?” inquired Guy, as Artie paused in his narrative.
“He said he would, but he denied he’d lost a gun. Smithers wasn’t in, so
he said he’d come back again and went away.”
“You’re sure he’s the highwayman?”
“You’ve got all the evidence I have. What do you think about it?”
“It looks funny. What are you going to do about it?”
“Oh, nothing I guess. Let’s go an’ see Smithers.”
“All right, if it isn’t too late.”
“It’s only twenty minutes to nine. He won’t go to bed for an hour yet.”
They found Smithers in his room reading a newspaper. He seemed
delighted, as usual, to see them, calling out heartily:
“Come in, lads, an’ make yourselves at home. I tell you an old bachelor
like me gets mighty lonesome sometimes. Think I’ll get married or adopt
a family. What’s on your mind?”
“We’ve got some important news for you—that is, Artie has,” said Guy.
“That’s why we called so late—thought you’d like to know it. He saw the
man today who tried to hold us up.”
“What!”
There could be no doubt that Smithers was interested. He exhibited more
astonishment than Guy had shown at Artie’s information; he sprang to his
feet, then sank back into his seat and broke into a laugh.
“You don’t mean he tried to hold you up again?” he inquired, turning to
Artie.
“No,” was the clerk’s smiling answer. “He wanted his gun back, I
suppose.”
“His gun back?”
“Yes, he came to the desk and asked for you.”
“Asked for me!”
“Yes.”
“How could he know I had ’is gun?”
“I told ’im.”
“Oh, but I don’t understand. How’d you know he was the highwayman? Did
he tell you so?”
“Hardly. He only said he wanted to see you, and—”
“Before or after you told ’im I’d found a gun?”
“Before.”
“But how’d he know me?” asked Smithers with a seemingly puzzled air.
“I don’t know,” replied Artie. “That’s what mystifies us.”
“How’d you know who he was?”
“I recognized ’is voice.”
“Oh,” responded Smithers meditatively. Then turning to Guy he added:
“Your friend is very expert in the identification of voices. He ought to
belong to Scotland Yard. Are you as clever in that line?”
“No, I’m sure I couldn’t do as well as he did,” replied Guy. “I couldn’t
say positively I’d never heard a voice like the highwayman’s. I think
Artie’s got sharper ears ’n I have.”
“You didn’t tell ’im you recognized ’im as the highwayman, did you?”
asked Smithers, addressing the clerk.
“Oh, no,” replied the latter with a wise blink. “I only asked ’im if
he’d lost a revolver in the fog, an’ told ’im you found one.”
“But I didn’t.”
“Well, you picked it up after it was dropped, so I didn’t tell such an
awful big fib.”
“Wha’ ’d he say?”
“He said it wasn’t his an’ walked out.”
“So you believe he was the highwayman, do you?” asked the jeweler with a
look of amusement.
“He must ’a’ been.”
“Suppose you should find out he’s a good friend o’ mine—what then?”
“I—I don’t know,” stammered Artie. “I didn’t think o’ that. Is he?”
“I didn’t say he was—I don’t know,” laughed Smithers. “But your
suspicion is so very improbable, I wanted to find out how certain you
were of your evidence. I’m pretty well acquainted at Scotland Yard an’
happen to know they’re looking for keen, shrewd men all the time. I was
going to recommend you for a job over there, but I’m afraid I can’t now.
If my suggestion that this fellow might be a friend o’ mine hadn’t
weakened you so, I’d take you over and have ’em give you a trial; but,
as it is, I’m afraid you’re only a dreamer. A sharp rascal could bluff
you too easy.”
Artie’s face showed evidence of his disappointment. He really had
entertained fond ambition of becoming a detective, but now it seemed
that all such hope must be cast aside. He had a serious weakness: He
wasn’t sure of himself.
“Have you got a friend with a voice like this man’s?” inquired Artie
with a suggestion of unsteadiness in his utterance and realizing as he
spoke that he was continuing the weakness of which he had been accused.
“I don’t know what kind o’ voice he’s got,” replied Smithers sharply;
“but that doesn’t make any difference. If your detective sense were of
high order, you wouldn’t hesitate to make a positive charge against him
even though you knew him to be my brother. I’m very sorry, my boy, for I
was beginning to think I’d discovered a genius in you.”
“I’ll think it over an’ tell you tomorrow how certain I am,” announced
Artie in as business-like manner as he could command. Then he arose from
his chair and moved toward the door, fingering the hem of his coat
nervously.
“Oh, my! no; that wouldn’t do any good,” advised Smithers, also rising.
“The great secret of a successful life as a detective,”—speaking very
impressively—“rests in knowing a thing beyond a doubt and of knowing
immediately that you know it. Come an’ see me anytime—you’re always
welcome—but forget that detective business. You’re a fine fellow, but as
a sleuth I’m afraid you’d prove to be a false alarm.”